Firework Show
It was dark, after ten.
Little, blooming blossoms, vanishing mere seconds after they appeared. That's what they were like. That's how the eyes read them, saw them. The fireworks, from afar, popped into view, purposeful, brief explosions. Some coming from seven miles that way (the north-east). Others coming from eight miles the other (west). The land being open, being Indiana pastures, fields, and prairies, they could be seen from here. Seen from this rural isolation. And heard, too, on sound-delay. The flashes. The colors. The pin-wheeling pinks, burgeoning blues. Gargantuan greens. And five, six, seven seconds later, the dull 'boom,' that familiar thunder-thud. Almost carried away by the gentle breeze, the sound. But making it to the ears just in time. Just before it lost the ability to travel any further.
Such was the experience of indulging in long-distance fireworks shows.
Adelaide was on her back, in the dewy, green grass, which was rather tall in spots. Enough to be a cushion. It hadn't rained lately, not in the past four or five days. The weather was such an odd thing. A nineteen-degree Easter. A drought-ful June. And now a mixed July. And, for rural furs, the weather meant more, impacted more. You saw it first-paw. It could wreck your livelihood as much as it could support it. And any damage it wrought, you lived with. But none of that right now. No storms or darker thoughts. No, it was soft and warm tonight, a July night. Summery, soulful. On the fourth of the month, on a Wednesday.
It didn't really feel like the middle of the week, though, did it? Was it supposed to? Holidays were always a bit jarring, at first. Taking ordinary days and making them into something more. To where the anticipation almost surpassed the actual event. But it wasn't like the 4th was the greatest of holidays. Christmas and Easter had those honors. For the bat and mouse, at least. But, still, a parade this morning, a big family lunch. And no work. No nothing. Just time to be, to reflect.
Time to be at home.
This day was about their home.
Field was half-draped over her, atop of her. Facing her. His nose hovering near her left cheek. His nose, all pink and sniffy, going, going, going. But the twitches were normal for him. Like his whiskers. Like how they went. Twitch, twitch, twitch. But, really, he was quite relaxed, lax. He was at peace here, on their property. Near their home. The lightning bugs were out, as well. Not as many, though. Their season was coming to a close. But the night-bugs, the creek-frogs, all those players in this many-bit orchestra, they were all gearing up for the bulk of this twilight. They were prepared to sing, to serenade. Even until dawn, if necessary. And, letting out a soft, little breath, Field began nosing his wife's cheek. Running that nose through her fur, her soft, soft fur, slowly. Slow about it. So that they simmered, like a glorious, spiced-up bat and mouse soup, great for slurping.
"You think she'll, uh ... give 'em," Adelaide breathed, her paws on the mouse's sides, "any trouble?" Their little year and a half old daughter, Akira, was with Adelaide's parents. Watching a fireworks show in Zionsville. She would spend the night with them. And that was fine. Adelaide trusted her parents. After all, they did a good job raising me, she told herself. They know how to handle children. But, still, to not have her daughter with her, with those little, emotional feelers fishing about. That telepathic presence. The lack of it made her a bit nervous. Left her with a tiny, little emptiness.
"Third time you've asked that," Field replied, shifting a bit. Sliding more of his body over hers. He didn't have a shirt on. Just jean shorts, with white, cotton briefs beneath. His trim, honey-tan chest slid over her belly. Her bra-covered breasts. Her shirt was a few feet away, hidden in the pasture-grass. "She'll be fine." A pause. "Anyway, I'm the worrier, remember?" "Yeah," was the whispered reply. More like a sigh. More like 'that feels good, so don't you stop.' For the mouse, with his big, rodent buckteeth, was nibbling on her neck. Gently, gently, in that hungry way. That starving way. He was nibbling on her with a practiced ease. With utter familiarity. The stars, twinkling above them, seemed to shine with jealousy. For stars, as big and powerful as they were, could not nibble. And could not be amorous. They had nothing on the mouse and bat, who were of more worth than a million stars. A million, billion stars. Created, sculpted by God, and brought together in His holy matrimony. In this, they were blessed. And in this, and in their Savior's sacrifice, they were free.
There is nothing to hold you, now.
Go on, go on. Nothing is keeping you back.
A tiny squeaky sound from him. As he kept at it.
And Adelaide had to smile, even giggle-chitter a bit. "Field ... "
"What?" the mouse asked, pulling back a bit. He moved his arms, his elbows on the ground, on the soil. Propping his upper body, allowing him to hold his muzzle above hers. "What'd I do?" His whiskers twitched, and his tail snaked. His eyes all wide with innocence.
"You squeaked," was her simple, soft reply. "You ... "
" ... I've squeaked plenty of times before."
"I know." Her deep-pink eyes met his murky blue-greys. "I know," she repeated, giving a sigh this time. She licked her lips, cleared her throat. "Just seemed especially nice that time. Just made me, uh ... smile, you know? A feel-good squeak." A breath. The air smelled fresh. Of grass, trees, rural air. Unfettered, unpolluted, clear and shining, closer to its original intent. With a bit of dewy dampness, as well as some alfalfa mixed in. An alfalfa field had been cut nearby. And the mouse, himself? To her nose, he smelled earthy. That earthy smell. Which was pleasing to her. And how did she smell to him?
" ... like the clouds," Field replied. For the bat had, with her telepathy, sent the question wordlessly into his mind. "Like the clouds. If clouds had a smell, that's what your scent would be." And he took a breath. "Anyway, you said I made a feel-good squeak?"
"Mm-hmm." The bat looked content. Her body posture very easy, with no sign of tension.
"Well, the point o' me nibblin' on your body is to make you make feel-good squeaks," he stated. "Mine are in response to yours, so ... " A trail. His tail wavering about.
"Well, I was just commenting on how I liked your feel-good squeaks. And that I don't mind if you make 'em while makin' me make 'em." A toothy grin.
"Well, if I make 'em while I'm makin' you make 'em, then ... I'll ... mm," he went, whiskers twitching. Confused, saying, "I really don't know what we're talkin' about anymore."
"Well, we're drunk on each other, right?" An inhale. "We're allowed to talk a bit of nonsense now and then. Side-effect of love." An exhale.
A soft smile. He wasn't going to argue that. "But you almost got me into a tongue-twister there, too. I think you wanted me to get tongue-tied, mm? So you could say, 'open your muzzle and let me un-tie your tongue' ... so you could make out with me."
"Yeah? You think? Heh ... an interesting," she breathed, "theory. But I didn't get you into anything." Her eyes sparkled mischievously. She held back a giggle-chitter. "Like I'm tryin' to lure you into ... "
" ... somethin'. Definitely somethin'," he went, lowering back down, completely horizontal atop of her. "Mm ... "
"I'm not a sneaky bat, darling. If I want you gettin' into somethin', I'll just use my mind and ... you'll get into it." She was grinning, now.
"So, it's all coming out now, is it? I see. Mm ... you're," he panted, "tryin' to get me into ... "
" ... that comes," she breathed, cutting him off, "later." Her breasts rose and fell, rose and fell.
"Not much later, I hope." His voice holding an earnest tone.
"But you are," she teased, giggle-chittering, "eager tonight. Mm?" And that wasn't a complaint. She spent so much time trying to build his confidence. And it heartened her greatly to see it pay off. To see the results. He would always be shy. Anxious. That was in his nature. But if she could, for even an hour, get him to forget all that, get him to totally ease-up? Well, it made her smile. And, right now, he was relaxed. And so was she. And nothing was holding them back, no. A refrain that their instincts were singing to them. Don't hold back, don't hold back. Don't fight it.
"Mm," he went, sniffing her scent, running his nose through her fur. She smelled like everything soft and good. Like their bed. Their house. Their kitchen. She smelled like safety, security, tenderness, pleasure. She smelled like passion. The love of his life, mother to his child. She had saved him from dark, overwhelming things. She meant so much to him. He could hardly word it. Hardly give it justice.
A big, toothy smile, her pearly-white fangs showing in the buttery moonlight. For the moon was like butter. Like milk. Something creamy, something dairy. Moving through the sky as it did, dwarfing the stars.
Field, after a moment of quiet, after gentle, wordless nuzzling, breathed, "I am ... I am," he went, "eager." A pause. "And ... "
" ... not gonna make fun o' you for it," she promised. Meaning it. She knew how fragile he was. He was a wispy male, soft, artistic, nothing stereo-typically masculine. Her winged arms wrapping around his bare back, her paws in his soft, honey-tan fur. Fingers gently clutching, gently moving about. She stroked his back. "Not trying to tease you," she breathed, close to one of his ears. "I'm happy you're eager. Cause Lord knows," she told him, closing her eyes, "that I am, too." A pause. A deep breath. And, opening her eyes, she looked to the horizon. "Just one of those nights," she went, watching the Sheridan fireworks blinks, blink, pop into the sky, and then shower away. And then seconds, seconds, and 'thud-thud.' "One of those nights," she repeated.
Field knew what she meant. And, being the writer, breathed it out like prose. In an airy, reverent tone. "You have that energy in your step, like a sizzle, like slick, steamy thing is crawling beneath your skin. Making your heart to pulse and pound, making you dizzy. You just wanna crumple to the ground, roll onto your back. You want ... " A breath, and he faltered a bit, his tail hanging in the air behind him like a fishing line, a live wire. And his ears swiveling gently, like little dishes. Oh, all the subsidiary motions of his body! They were hypnotizing to watch, and they betrayed the true extend of his 'scurry.' His mousey-ness. So sweet, so cute, begging to be cuddled. Begging to be eaten up. That cuteness, indeed, so fierce as to subconsciously mess with one's brain. All Adelaide wanted to do was protect him. Keep him close. Just keep him.
"Go on," the bat urged, paws slipping into his briefs, his jean shorts. Holding to his pert rump-cheeks. It was a comforting feeling to just grab at his rump. To just squeeze. "Go on ... it's not silly. You're doin' good." A few blades of grass were tickling her swept-back, angular bat ears. She moved them a bit. The blades bent back into place.
His ears a bit rosy-pink, hot beneath the fur, he continued, expressing that, "It's like everything is sharper, everything glows. Everything knows," he whispered, "that you're ... " Again, he trailed. "Uh ... if I'm, uh, being poetic, am I allowed to say ... "
" ... mm-hmm."
"I don't wanna be crude."
The bat shook lightly with contained mirth. "Don't worry 'bout it. Say it. Say anything. Just speak to me," she breathed, more seriously now. "Talk to me, Field."
And a light nod, their noses brushing. His whiskers tickling her muzzle errantly. One of those little side-feelings that was so hard to capture or understand. But that made life all the more beautiful and real. Just his whiskers brushing her lips. That was it. There was no way to make that more than it was. Only that, for a brief moment, that sensation was everything. It was unforgettable.
"Field ... "
A swallow, and he nodded lightly. He was flushed beneath his honey-tan fur, and his paw-pads were a bit sweaty. " ... everything knows that you're," he breathed, "horny. Hot. Needing. Brimming with such desire. It knows, and the trees rustle at you differently. The birds sing at you with cheek in their pitches. You walk, and the earth seems to move beneath you. A pulse. Heart beating harder, harder, faster ... faster, and nothing can stop you," he went, mouthing his wife's neck-fur, sucking on it. "Mm. Mm ... " He pulled his lips off. Just a bit. To exhale. To say, "It's that feeling where you tingle. All over. You're on fire. You want to know someone as fiercely as you want them to know you. You want the purest form of expression. You want love. Love," he managed, "is ... taking you over, and you gotta surrender to it. Because it satisfies ... " A pant, sucking on her chin, moving up to her lips. Lips brushing. " ... satisfies all."
She leaned her head up. Barely. Enough to press her lips close to his. Wet, slippery contact, with tongue-tips touching. Her tongue, meant for catching bugs, was far more impressive than his own. While his own tongue stayed mostly in place, hers slid forward, through his lips, into his muzzle. Their lips still locked.
He sucked, sucked, nose flaring. Sniffy-sniffy-sniff, it went. Went, went, went. And, soon, Adelaide tilted her head. Leaving the mouse to pant. "Oh, gosh," was his exclamation. Oh, but he was dizzy. Beautifully tipsy. Not on any alcohol or drug. But on his love for her. A thing that could fill books. Encyclopedias. Volumes of them. But, which, in the heat of the moment, could only be explained as, 'Oh, gosh.'
A slight, silent giggle-chitter from her. She was a flighty, confident thing. Her of the biting fangs and flying wings. And, yet, despite being a bat, she was also so grounded. She tended to dream, yes. But not nearly as much as Field did. Field was the dizzy-eyed dreamer. And she loved that about him. His capacity for things. For emotions, thoughts. And she said, "Did we come out here to watch the fireworks shows ... or to make one of our own?" A light pant, and a pause. "I'm not quite sure." There was a definite playfulness in her tone. Her rich, carnation-pink fur so feminine, so pleasing to the eye. Seeming bolder, somehow, in the moonlight.
"I think we came out here to do both."
"Both, mm? Well, hard to pay attention to distant shows when there's a closer one brewing."
"Mm-hmm," was the agreement, his paws sliding over her upper body, through his fur. Trying to free her breasts.
Another giggle-chitter, as she sighed, laying there. Letting him. He liked them. And she liked that he liked them. So, she just relaxed.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" he told her. His thin, silky-pink tail snaking like a rope through the air. Barely missing a meandering lightning bug. "I just ... I ... should like to write poems about it, but poems are too clumsy. They aren't expansive enough. I just gotta ... "
" ... show me," she breathed, seriously.
"But the words ... "
" ... are well and good. And I love hearing them. Your words feed me," she told him, meeting his eyes. Her bra now loose.
He began to peel it away, leaning back, sitting back. At a straddle, now, of her body. The bra removed and gently tossed aside, rustling as it went into the grass. To the west, lilac, melon, emerald. Blink, blink, pop. Wait for it, wait for it. 'Thud-a-thud-a-thud.' Oh, but weren't long-distance, time-delayed fireworks dreamier, somehow? Surely so. Oh, surely, they ...
" ... feed me," she repeated. "Don't stop with your words. But when the words aren't enough? The only recourse," she breathed, "is to show me." Her eyes glowed with warmth.
It was amazing, in a way. In a world where marriage was broken and abused, how such pleasure and purpose could be found in it. What were others doing wrong? What were they missing? Didn't time make love stronger, bring two individuals closer? The mouse and bat had been married two years. They had a child. Their hearts were on fire, and they weren't likely to be extinguished anytime soon.
For devotion, like a garden, grew.
Commitment, like a fruit, flourished into something sweet. A reward, a by-product of mutual effort, mutual desire, mutual lives. Living as one.
They knew each so other so well. And, therefore, there was no need to flinch when long bouts of eye-contact took place. And when poetry was whispered. So, when Adelaide asked him to 'show me,' the mouse was going to oblige without guilt, without fear, without doubt. He was going to show her like only he could.
And, oh, she was prepared to show him in return. As only she could show him.
To make love.
As only they, with each other, could.
But thoughts, intentions, meanings, they were too much to process right now, and they all flittered aside. They gave way. To this. Oh, tangible, pressing lips, oh warm, furry bodies in the open, nighttime air, beneath the stars, the moon, the distant fireworks. Beneath the very eyes of God.
Him wriggling.
Her huffing.
Him indulging in her.
First, her breasts. An appetizer on the way to the main course. But no less tasty. No less necessary to the overall meal, to the overall experience. The mouse sniffed one furred mound, the other.
"Hard choice, huh?" was Adelaide's amused breath, watching him.
Field, hearing her, gave an airy squeak, choosing one. Descending upon a nipple. Lips parting, mouthing, enveloping. He suckled. Tenderly, he suckled her nipple, his tongue pressing to it. It hardened. Had already been hard, probably. But it was warm and fleshy, and he liked it, and he suckled more.
"Oh," was her drawn-out sigh, eyes closing. "Mm," she went, head lolling to the side a bit. This was a lazy pleasure. A really lazy kind of pleasure. She licked her sharp, dry fangs.
Field slipped off the nipple, which wetly left with a faint 'pop.' And he moved to the other, taking it in. Suckling immediately.
"Mm ... heard that," she whispered, reading his mind. Hearing what was unsaid. A hazy smile. "My mouse," she breathed, "misses my milk." All the 'M'-sounds coming out like soft, soothing hums.
Field's ears went rosy-pink. Rosier-pink, actually, for they were already pretty rosy. He continued suckling, though, unimpeded. After giving birth to their daughter, while breast-feeding her, Adelaide had taken to breast-feeding Field, as well. The mouse had adored it. And he did miss her milk, to be honest. The thought had swirled through his head just now. And she'd easily picked it up. There were no keeping secrets from a bat.
"Mm-hmm ... mm, Field," the bat breathed, sighing out. "It's," she breathed, "okay. Liked giving it to you ... " She trailed, head rolling this way. And that way. And then stopping.
The mouse, still flushed, still hot, suckled some more. Before slowing. Before slipping off, panting, resting his muzzle a bit. Putting his pink, sniffy nose in her pinker fur. Sniffing errantly, breathing, "I just ... I love your breasts."
A pleased bat-chitter. "Mm."
"They just ... oh, so soft," he went, "warm, supple. To mold, shape with my paws, to put my lips around those nipples, and ... " He exhaled sharply. Getting hotter, hotter. "You're so hot," he panted. Wishing he could've worded it with more sophistication. But he was quite worked up. It simply came out as it came out, simple as that was. But it got the point across. And the way he'd said it conveyed ninety-percent of the meaning.
And she flushed with pleasure. At being complimented. At being whispered to in such a way. To hear him adorn her body with such adjectives. 'Soft, warm, supple. Hot.' It made her feel so wanted, so needed. Made her feel good. And she was running on feelings, now. For thoughts were spiraling out of control, into heady, hungry things.
Field sat up a bit, paws going to her wings. Her lovely winged arms, where he traced the velvet-furred membranes that linked them to her sides. Trace, trace, smoothly run your fingertips in little circles. Listen to her breathing. Put your paw-pads flat down, and then stroke upward. Hear that little chitter escape her throat. And keep doing it. Keep caressing her, because she's so good to feel, and because you don't wanna pull away. And because she likes it.
Eyes closed, a throaty moan from the pink-furred bat. Being caressed like this, lightly, errantly. It made her tingle. It made her want more. It made her throat dry.
A small plane motor-motored overhead, wing-lights blinking, propellers whirring. Going somewhere.
And the honey-tan mouse switched gears a bit. Moving, kissing, mouthing his way down her belly, his paws going to her pink, feminine hips, peeling her panties down.
The bat chitter-moaned in anticipation. Her heart pounded in her heaving breasts. She closed her eyes, completely naked, now. Spreading her winged arms to their full 'wingspan,' leaving them open, her belly rising, falling, her muzzle parting. As she felt those first, tentative licks, moist, hot. His modest tongue ...
... licking her labia. Licking around it. He licked the small perimeter of 'fuzz,' where the tufted, groin-fur stopped and the flesh of her petals began. He licked up to her mons, panting into her fur, sniffing of her sex-scent. And then went down, down, back to those lips, parting them. Fishing about. For taste, texture, temperature.
Her paws opened and closed. She almost didn't know she was doing it, but they opened, closed, opened. His tongue licked at her vagina, and she drew a breath. Throbbing as his lips began to nibble, his muzzle pressing, probing. She spread her legs further apart, giving him the easiest, fullest access she could. But as he went on and on, eating her with abandon, she found she couldn't keep those legs open. She had to close them. So that her thighs could press to the sides of his head. So she could keep him in place. So that he couldn't stop even if he wanted to (and he didn't). She loved this. This pleasure. This. Him. Oh. Pleasure.
He felt her tremble, felt her quake. Going about his lovely task with utter, rodent finesse, lick-nibbling, panting. Two fingers tracing the opening of her vagina, softly, softly sinking in, withdrawing. He shivered at this, his penis drooling pre. He moved those fingers in and out, lips moving, too. Up, up her labia, sniffing, licking. Stopping at her clitoris, lips going over it. Over that little, hooded nub. Over, over ...
... over her limit. Chitter-chitter-chit, she cried, echo-bursting up at the heavens. Those high-pitched, bouncing calls sent out, out. Along with her chitters. Her winged arms withdrawing, back to her body. Back to him. Paws to his ears, holding to the edges of them. Exciting him as she, herself, was being excited.
A sex-moan from him, his blood-gorged ears gripped. "Uh ... uh," he went, weakly, drunk on her. Paralyzed by the ear-stimulation. He ached for penetration.
Her femininity rippled in pure pleasure, in orgasmic spasms, making her to dribble femme-nectar, making her to squirm and moan. Making her to, "Oh, oh ... oh." Her paws, in the process, slipped off his ears.
Field, ears free, feeling dizzy, pulled his muzzle back. He was panting. Wriggling free of the remainder of his own clothing, getting bare, he zoned out for a moment. His pupils were fully-dilated. His circumcised, five-inch mouse-hood was erect, dribbling, throbbing with need. He was a very horny mouse. And all he wanted, now, was to be inside his wife, in between her legs. And to receive her bite on his neck. All he wanted was all-out union with her.
To engage in the main course of their love-making.
"P-put," she panted, "your, uh ... just, uh, lay down," she managed, "atop o' me."
He did as told.
And her winged arms wrapped immediately around him, and ...
... squeak!
Slump! She threw all her weight to her right, grinning as they rolled over. Their positions reversed. "I'm on top," she said, simply.
The mouse had no objection to that. Oh, no, none at all. And he whimper-squeaked as she positioned herself, raising her hips a bit. Both of them sweat-matted, panting, way out here in the grassy pasture, naked in nature.
Hump! Squeak! He missed, his mouse-hood sliding off through her groin-fur. Flushing, he took a few breaths.
"Take it easy," was Adelaide's warm, reassuring breath. A pant. "I'm, uh ... not goin' anywhere. Try again ... " A breath, adding cheekily, "Just think with your squeaky toy." A chitter.
Swallowing, blushing, he did so. Hip-grinding against her in a sensuous, uninhibited way. Not using his paws or tail, he worked his mouse-hood between her silky folds. His blunt tip poking into her honey-pot, her tunnel. And the shaft pushing, sliding in as he pressed his hips right up to her, moving to a hilt. Her slick, steamy walls hugging his sensitive flesh. "Uh ... uhn. Oh," he squeaked, eyes half-open. "Oh ... "
It was like a furnace. His mouse-hood, his squeaky-toy, marinated by her body heat, with her femme-fluid. It made him slick, made him hot. And her raw, pink muscle ripple-rippled involuntarily, as if milking him. Milk, milk. His penis fully hugged by her sheath-like muscle. Every bit of flesh. "Uh ... hnn," he went, pulling back. Only to find himself plunging back in. The friction was divine.
Adelaide chitter-grunted a bit, fangs leaking their mating milk. She licked them, absently, the urge to bite welling, welling. And she licked and lapped at her husband's neck, numbing a spot for the bite. Bite, bite. So, so right to ...
... bite! A squeak and a wriggle.
She held him in place with her winged arms.
He stopped struggling, relaxing. Sighing. Swimming in the telepathic link that was now taking effect. Shared ...
... memories.
Emotions.
Sensations.
Thoughts.
Everything. A merger of minds. And bodies. And ...
... a half an hour later.
A sigh, her head turning. They were lying side-by-side, now, the act done with. Both in an afterglow. Both coming down from that breeding high. "Seems," she breathed, "that I got mouse seeds ... dripping," she told him, "out of my ... "
" ... treasure," he supplied for her, poetically. Dreamily. For it was a treasure to him. Her whole body was. She was.
" ... my treasure. Sticking down my thighs, matting into my fur." A breath. And, with a toothy grin, she added, "All those mouse seeds. Wonder how those got there."
"I wonder," was Field's beaming, whisker-twitching reply, meeting her eyes. He looked so proud and happy. To have been so close to her (such intimacy). To have given her such pleasure. To have gotten such pleasure in return. Oh, but it felt good. It had felt, he mused, good. Very. Good. "Mm. I love you," he went, wrapping an arm around her bare stomach. Sidling into her, snuggling up in the grass. "So much," he added, just because he wanted to. And because it was the truth.
"I love you, too," was her honest, breathed-out whisper.
The fireworks from all the little towns had stopped. The distant colors and sounds fading. Going silent for another year. But there were other kinds of fireworks. Such as the kind they'd just made. And they could be made year-round.
And, soon, their heady high faded, leaving them civil again, quiet again. Leaving them to reflect on what they'd done. The true spiritual depth of it. To thank God for such a blessing. For each other. Slowly, they got dressed and walked, in bare foot-paws, casually back to the house. Talking as they went. Confiding in each other.
Whispering things for each other's ears only.