Sonata No. 8
Ross gave a quick glimpse, catching her civil, curtailed commotion, that familiar flicker-flicking of her holy-white bobtail. Such a pleasant motion. And, oh, such a pleasant tail. The snow rabbit, more than comfortable in her pelt, more than comfortable with her body, continued to flicker it. That fluffy, raindrop-shaped tail poised prettily just above her rump. Successfully luring her husband to look fully, completely up.
She knew how to get his attention.
She knew how to bring him from a scurry to a screeching halt.
He reacted, at this, a little shyly. Always, even now, even after all this time, a certain modesty about him. One that only added to his cuteness. And whiskers twitching, the mouse tilted his head thoughtfully. Continuing to gaze at her, to drink her in, drink her up with his dark-blue eyes. Far better than any whiskey or wine, she was. Far better than the hottest soup on the coldest day.
Feeding both the inner and outer parts of him.
And, oh, he loved her so.
So, yes, he stared.
Without apology.
The meadow mouse peering at her with colorful adjectives born of long-built intimacy and passion. Adjectives laced more in instinctual feeling than proper grammar. He continued with his 'not looking away,' even while he finally picked up the piece of vine charcoal. The dusty, lightweight stick of charcoal. To which, earlier, he'd told her ...
" ... one of those charcoal sticks? Like, costs the same as a really good chocolate bar. You know?" He'd stopped by the art supply bookstore on his way back from the art school. It was late in the afternoon, the sun setting deep to the west, disappearing. Sinking further, further down. It was late-November, when the days had no stamina.
The lights on the skyscrapers in Downtown Indianapolis, in the wake of it all, were just beginning to blink on. A tad more by the minute. The white crowns, neon-blue lines, blinking spires, and all. And, far behind it, the lights of an airplane moving, jetting off. Going, going away. Like a little light leaving the big lights. Where to? And would it ever come back? Such was the lonely quality of artificial light. It never burned as brightly. It never stuck around. That the city was illuminating itself with such things, rather than the sun, moon, and stars, made one long for the countryside.
They both, with most of their being, longed for it. The rural life. But such things would have to wait. It certainly wasn't the mouse's intention to be stuck in urban confines any longer than he had to be. Nor was it Aria's. Come graduation and getting good jobs, both he and Aria would go back to where they belonged. To where they could raise a family.
Back to where color and depth and sanity were.
Back to nature.
"I did not know that," was all Aria eventually said, looking up from her equations. Her engineering homework. Which she'd just started on, having recently gotten back from her on-campus job. Working in one of the campus offices. She and Ross worked part-time while going to school part-time. It meant long, often-stressful days. But they had each other. And they had faith.
"Well, it does." A pause, and several whisker-twitches, eventually sighing as he shrugged his backpack off. And put his art supplies aside, as well. "I mean, at those prices, you'd think you'd be able to eat the charcoal. If it's more expensive than chocolate. Not, like, check-out aisle chocolate. I mean, the good chocolate bars ... like the ones made in South Bend and stuff."
The snow rabbit had to eye-smile. "Yes?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Well, then why don't you?"
"What?" A confused blink.
"Eat the charcoal, then," was her suggestion.
"I can't do that." A whisker-twitch, his thin, ropy tail snaking all about, all about. Body full of mousey motions. Cuteness coming to the fore, as it usually did with him.
"You gnaw on wood-blocks," she pointed out, simply. Ross, being a mouse, and having rodent buckteeth, had to regularly gnaw on wood to keep his teeth healthy. "Isn't that charcoal made of burnt, vacuum-compressed wood?"
"I don't know what it's made of," he said, honestly, a little sheepishly, and giving her a squeaky look. Starting to smile, though. "But I'm not eating it. I was just saying, is all."
She nodded, returning to her studies. "Very well." She was doing that thing. That thing. That playing 'hard to get.' Pretending to be disinterested. That so-cool act where she knew the mouse wanted to pour all his scurry into her. And where she was going to gladly let him. Only, she was going to force him to make the first move. She was going to force him to take the initiative.
Ross knew this. Knew she was playing him. And didn't mind all that much. But, still, he tried to resist. Tried to stay quiet. But he just couldn't. After a few moments, he was piping back up with, "I'm hungry for chocolate, now."
The snow rabbit looked back up, from her chair at their little kitchen table. "We do not have any."
"I know. Mm ... " His pink, ever-active nose sniffing wildly, he said, "I don't even like drawing. I'd rather buy a chocolate bar than charcoal." He leaned against the counter by the sink, looking at her. Melting a little as he watched her. She was so composed. And he didn't know why, but it turned him on.
"You are much better at it than me," she said, of drawing.
"That's not even the point." A weak, wanting breath. "The point is that I'm a photographer. And a writer. And ... those things." A small swallow, whiskers twitching.
"So you are," she affirmed, nodding. Her ears standing tall and proud, giving the slightest of twiddles.
He licked his dry lips, shifting away from the counter, opening the refrigerator, pulling out a cheese-block. He needed to settle down. And being that it wasn't time for love-making, cheese would have to do. Cheese was always the next best thing.
"Are you sure you want to eat that?" Aria said, sitting up a bit straighter, watching him.
"Yes ... why?" A blink.
"You go 'melty' when you eat cheese."
" ... I guess."
"You may 'guess.' I do not. I know," she declared. "You go 'melty'."
"So, like ...but it's my favorite," he stammered, tail wavering, and big, dishy ears going swivel-swivel.
A warm eye-smile. "I know that, as well." And a head-tilt, paired with a suggestive pause. "I'm just wondering if you shouldn't save it for later ... " If snow rabbits had been prone to winking, she would've done so. However, barring that, she simply raised her brow.
"L-later?" he whispered, sucking air.
"Later," she echoed.
"How much, uh ... "
" ... after supper. You can have cheese for dessert."
"Cheese and ... "
" ... yes."
" ... snow rabbits? Cheese and snow rabbits," he said, wanting to swoon at the thought. Oh, gosh.
She just watched him with growing mirth. He was, indeed, terribly cute. Mouses were most delicious. Especially her mouse. And, being a rabbit, she had a rather voracious appetite for him.
Ross, after a few more seconds, put the cheese back. And decided to nibble on some pretzels instead. Nibble-nibble. Pulling a paw-ful out of the pretzel bag, liking the salty, crunchy taste. Nibbling. Swallowing, continuing, "Yeah, well, anyway ... but I have to take all these 'foundation' classes, all these requirements. All design and drawing."
"As I have told you before, I am sure there is a good reason." The snow rabbit picked up a pencil and marked something on one of her study-sheets.
"Well, I know. I mean ... I understand why I need to know the principles of these things," he insisted, "and, you know ... how I can apply those principles to taking better pictures later on. It's just ... " He squeaked a little, trailing, squinting. " ... how come every time I try to be stubborn, you have to talk me out of it?"
An eye-smile, breathing in deep. Saying nothing. And marking something else on her sheet.
"You're the logic to my not, you know?" he whispered, not for the first time. "You un-stubborn me."
"Un-stubborn you?" she looked up. "An interesting phrase."
"It's true."
"You are not that stubborn. Not as much," she insisted, "as you believe. You are gentle, kind, patient ... if I had to come up with a list of adjectives to describe you, 'stubborn' would not even make the top fifteen."
"Really?"
"Really." She let her breath out and tilted her head, looking intently to him. That gaze of hers. Those eyes. "You, if we are to play the game of 'contrast,' are the fire to my ice. So, I think," she breathed, tilting her head just a tiny bit, "we are even when it comes to filling each other's deficiencies."
"Mm." A swallow, and a whisker-twitch. Feeling rather swoon-ful all of a sudden. Even without having eaten any cheese. And, then, he remembered he needed to ask her something. "Uh ... I have to do a drawing. For, uh, class ... "
... and that's when he'd asked her to pose for him. And she'd agreed. After all, why not? They were intimate. Married for a year and a half, now. Why should she be embarrassed to let him draw her? She was in shape. And, being that she was a snow rabbit, emotions repressed and filtered, she wasn't necessarily prone to much bashfulness if her husband had to share the drawing with his class. Though she imagined that, if he had to do so, his ears would go beet-red. This made her give a rabbit-purr.
Ross was almost ready, now. Having the charcoal. And the pink, rubber eraser. The 'pink pearl,' it was called.
A mew.
And he squeaked in response, nodding. Indicating that, yes, he was going to start. Just a second. Drawing tool in one paw. Eraser in the other. Looking over to her, and then down. Down for a moment, to put line and presence to the white surface of the drawing pad. And he began freely moving his wrist, his forearm, and drew the first blackened line. More like an outline. The beginning gesture: the curve of her bare, snowy-furred hip.
Oh, the feminine, fertile dip of her hip, to her warm, inviting thigh, and ...
... that's where he started. And, Lord, he could only sizzle at the notion of where that line was going to take him.
The snow rabbit, meanwhile, was looking back at him. Patiently, primly. In her logical, little way. From the couch, where she was sprawled, nude and lit only by the dimness of the sink-light. The mouse didn't want more illumination than that. He wanted to draw her boldly, fully. Shadows and all. Yes, it was his assignment. To draw a 'reclining figure.' Perhaps the parameters of the assignment hadn't meant to draw your mate with no clothes on. But, really, he didn't think the professor would mind.
And, anyway, to Ross, Aria was more artful than any actual art.
She took a breath. Her clothes on the carpet. Leaving only the softness of her pelt, her feminine features. Lying on her side, facing him, one leg was on top of the other, keeping hidden the beautiful parts nestled there. Which was a very alluring posture to be in. Sometimes, the hidden promise, suggestiveness, was more erotic than directness could ever be.
Ross, tuned in to her breathing, watched her breasts rise, rise. And fall. Soft, shapely. Supple. To hold and to caress, to stroke and to suck. Such hanging, feminine things, freed of any bra or shirt, and going where gravity demanded.
So real, all of it.
All of her.
He could smell and taste her body, even sitting several feet away. From his memory, he had the scents. He had the tastes. Of her lips, her maw. Of her belly, between her legs, of ...
... the snow rabbit waggled her antennae-like ears. The tall, slender ears, with the pink interiors, and the white fur and charcoal-colored tips. Such ears. Erogenous ears, actually. Just as capable of being 'stimulated' as a mouse's ears were. But rabbits, with their ramped-up breeding drives, rarely had the willpower or desire to stick to their ears for very long. And mouse-ears were bigger, much easier to 'work.' So, 'ear-sex' was something that, over time, had become primarily associated with them. But Aria's ears could do it. Even if it would take more effort. And, right now, they waggled and twiddled. Did those things that rabbit ears do. Trying to get his attention.
She was trying to get his attention again.
The mouse gave a quiet, questioning squeak, blinking and noticing, and reading her body language properly.
A raised brow from her.
And a nod from him. Yes. Alright. He'd been getting distracted, true. She'd noticed. Deep breaths, Ross. Deep breaths. General to the specific. Get the outline, the basic shape. Then work on the details afterward.
The details.
Oh, he remembered the details of last night ...
... how the air was chilly, caressing the lingering leaves on the half-naked trees. The maroon and melon-spotted leaves, which collected on the hard, lonely sidewalks, and on the asphalt streets. Where busy, bustling cars motored along. The city trying in vain to mimic nature's song. But unable. Only able to masquerade beneath the shade of the high and creamy crescent-moon. No, the city couldn't make music.
But, in their bedroom in their fourth-story apartment, the husband and wife, meadow mouse and snow rabbit, could.
And had.
And did.
And were.
Softly, slowly, she shifted her hips, the navy-blue bed-sheets rustling beneath her fur and form, her body moving with a calm, collected cadence. Some serene, spiritual confidence. The same confidence that shone daily in her crystalline, ice-blue eyes. Now expressing itself not in looks or glances, but errant brushes. Subtle touches. She was, even when silent, his aria. In noun and name. Aria and 'aria,' both.
His everything musical.
His Sonata No. 8.
For, like music, she was structured, purposeful.
A perfect aesthetic.
The brown-furred mouse, eyes momentarily closed, took in air. Took a breath. Held it for a moment, as if it were precious (and who was to say it wasn't), and then let it go. Wispy, trailing, tail ceasing its wayward, electrical flailing, and softly side-winding, instead. Across her leg, across one of her bare foot-paws.
Which caused her toes to curl, uncurl. And her foot-paw to slightly move. Slightly against his. A reaction to his action. And every second of contact, of being snugged so close to her familiar, comfortable body, no matter the part, was making his heart to run like that crazy mouse who'd gone up that clock in that nursery rhyme.
Or whatever it was.
Regardless, it made his thoughts to scurry just like that.
Just like this.
It was a Tuesday night, after supper, after classes, after work. After everything pedestrian and trained. It was only 7:35, but they didn't need to be entertained. Only by each other. They didn't need to eat. Only each other. They only needed, right now, each other, yes, in full-figured repetition. To satisfy all senses and desires, and to fuel that rising, romantic fire, the one that made a soul wobbly at the knees, where all you could think of was 'yes, oh, please.'
Yes.
Oh, please.
The mouse seemed to breathe such things, as his body wriggled and squirmed in that rodent-prone way, as his bare belly slid over hers. Frontal contact, with his muddy-brown fur meshing with snowy-white, creating such fluffy contrast, paws holding, grasping, gently grabbing at the sheets. And at her. As head tilted and muzzle went for what it wanted.
Her lips.
Her kiss.
She pressed back, arms around his neck, paws gingerly holding to the back of his head. Her muzzle tilted, her lips sweet, loosened, sucking gently on his. On his lower lip, and then his upper lip. And then on both of them haphazardly.
A smack-smack, and the kiss was broken.
"Oh," was the soft, airy sigh. A swallow, and lips back together, tongue-tips touching just a bit.
" ... mm," was the rabbit's sound as the further kiss 'smacked' to a stop. The taste lingering. And it was hard to say, especially with a hazy, love-addled mind, what a mouse tasted like. How did one describe the taste of scurry?
" ... Aria," was the breath, one of pleasant exertion.
"Yes?" she breathed back, in the mostly-dark. A nightlight was plugged into the wall near the clothes-dresser. And the silvery slivers of moonlight were filtering through the bedroom window, through the half-open blinds. But, other than that, no greater lights.
But that wasn't entirely true, was it?
Wasn't love a light? And didn't they have that? Right here, right now? Wasn't it making this room much brighter than the senses conveyed? Could senses even be trusted in matters of the heart?
Love was in this room.
And the Holy Spirit was in this room.
No, the mouse and snow rabbit weren't lacking for light. Even when blanketed in such private, cozy dimness.
" ... Aria," the mouse said again, sucking on her cheek, fondling one of her breasts.
" ... y-yes?" Her voice a bit shakier, now. Her right nipple being thumbed and rubbed 'til it was hard. "Yes," she half-asked, half-moaned.
"I just ... " A slight squeak, and a shuffle, paws sliding through her fur. Mousey hips bumping atop of hers. His eyes inches away. " ... just had to say your name. Just had to," he confessed, "breathe it. I have to ... "
... breathe a little bit faster.
Halfway lost in the fresh, recent memory, halfway focused on his current task of drawing, he was breathing a little faster. Just a little bit. Just enough to make his heart go. To make his whiskers twitch in frazzled fashion. Just enough to make his paw move in a faster, more gestural way. The soft, dusty sound of the charcoal eroding, appearing on the paper.
Scribble-scribble.
Mark-making, sight-checking, squinting, looking up. Looking back down. Having moved past her hips, down her thighs, to her legs. To her foot-paws. Working his way back up, up, drawing the outlines of those ears. Just the outlines, for now. General, he reminded himself, to the specific. That's how you're supposed to draw. That's ...
... how they always made love.
From the general: the nuzzles, the cuddles. The lazy, little nibbles on bare shoulders, and the licks to cheeks. Hot, heated licks. To the grazing kisses. The roving near-misses of paws that strayed very close to feel-good places and then skirted away at the last possible second, teasingly, fingers splayed and running, running through soft, scented fur.
The general arches. The arching of foot-paws, of bellies, of backs.
The sinking sighs.
The groping of tails and rumps.
The half-open, tender eyes.
And, oh, the intentions. The things desired, the things dreamed of, the things they wanted to do. And, oh, to actually do them.
Yes, to do.
" ... I, uh, where ... where do you want," the mouse breathed, muzzle hovering over one of her breasts again. He'd somehow wound up on all fours over her. He didn't remember doing that. He didn't remember raising his body up. He didn't remember kissing and mouthing her belly while she writhed in soft satisfaction. He swallowed. He did remember, though, the dreamy blurs of nicety, the stretches where time seem to stop and settle into a realm of rightness. Yes, pulsing pleasantness, getting more powerful by the moment. Whether or not he was entirely lucid didn't really matter right now. For love wasn't academic.
Love was intuited.
Was known.
Was felt. Was ...
... being grabbed. By his shoulders. She was trying to push him aside, or pull him down. He wasn't sure which. Pull, push? Push. She was pushing him. And, like a spark had gone off in his mind, he realized she was actually pushing him down. Trying to. Not down against her. But down the length of her body.
A weak mew, legs spreading. Posture pleading, but words fleeting. Just another mew. Asking for it with her animal-sound. The soft motions of her foot-paws wrinkling the bed-sheets. The soft notes of her baited breaths.
Everything soft.
Everything with a serenading sound.
"Mm ... " Aria turned her head a bit. Head resting on a pillow, lolling to the side, eyes willingly closed. Willingly. Before they were made to helplessly do so. Before they were forced shut by the pleasure that was to come.
The mouse, paws on her exposed thighs, wriggled, his pert, rural-bred rump in the air a bit. Moving around. His tail snaking all about, snaking through the air like a ropy baton. Like his tail was conducting his body. Or, indeed, conducting this whole romantic act.
The mouse exhaled.
She gasped.
A gentle, directed breath washing over her hooded clitoris, making her toes curl again, making her foot-paw to retract a bit. And she swallowed as the mouse's muzzle crept closer, closer, and finally came into contact with her tufted groin-fur. Where the snowy-white fur was a bit thicker. Nose sniffing, sifting through it, and circling her nub. Circling, but not touching. And then sinking down to her fleshy, pouting vulva, those pink petal-lips, eagerly pushing between them with his nose and tongue, getting the full scent, getting the full taste by dragging his modest tongue up that length. And down it. And then between it, where he worked for a minute or so.
Getting her full sex.
"Oh ... " She could only sigh. It was the only appropriate response. And the only one she was currently capable of. Words, in moments like these, left her, failed her. Words, in moments like these, were afterthoughts. Love-making was when you showed what words couldn't convey. You did what words could not.
And the mouse did his 'showing' with glee. And with that trademark mousey finesse, never rushing, never overdoing it. Never overdoing her. But, oh, enjoying it. There could be no mistaking the fact that he enjoyed this. If the stiff, bobbing mouse-hood between his legs was any indication. And if his panting squeaks and blood-gorging ears gave a clue.
"Mm ... "
Careful licks and gentle lip-nibbles, smothering sucks. Inching his way back, back up to her clitoris, his lips sliding over it. Upper lip sliding over it, moving it between both his lips. Surrounding it with his muzzle, and just breathing on it, hovering his tongue a mere fraction of an inch from its surface.
The snow rabbit's paws trembled, waiting for it. Waiting for it. Waiting for the tongue to drop. Waiting for him to press his tongue to the nerve-rich tip of her pleasure-spot.
Whiskers twitching, he waited, waited ...
" ... ah, ah." The snow rabbit arched. Her clitoris assaulted by his tongue. Almost too much, too ...
... in synch with her to be blind to her signals. He knew when she was reaching her limit. And backed off accordingly. For a moment, anyway.
A moment.
Before he went back at it, slipping two fingers into her femininity, her vagina, slipping an inch, two. Just a bit. Shivering as he did so. It felt good even to his fingers. How much better it would feel with other body parts! Her walls squelched over his fingers smoothly, slickly. And he curled those fingers up, gently stroking the upper wall of her tunnel. Gently, with his fingertips, while he kissed the top of her vulva and licked little circles around the exposed glans of her now-erect clitoris. All of it so beautiful to his eyes, and so desirable to his senses.
But it was more than mere biology.
There was also a great admiration, an appreciation for her body as beauty, as art. An appreciation that bordered on the spiritual. For, oh, it was, indeed, spiritual. It really was.
A weak mew or two, breasts beginning to heave, knees bent, lips slightly parted. Her panting audible to his ears.
His ears.
He felt a sudden, shivery sensation coming from his ears. Not a cold shiver, but a hot, hurried one.
Aria, huffing, had reached her arms down and was holding to the rims of his lobes with her fingers. Just the rims, the edges. Just stimulating the erogenous, capillary-rich flesh a little bit.
"Oh," was the simple, effeminate sigh. Squeaking, his efforts to pleasure her intensified. And it didn't take that much longer. She'd already been close. So, so ...
... steamy, her sex, with his muzzle lightly humping it until ...
... she came. Her paws weakly letting go of his ears, weakly falling to her own belly, then sliding off to the bed-sheets. She gripped the bed-sheets, now, clenching them with her fingers, mewing in orgasm.
The mouse, throughout, kept his muzzle close to her femininity, lapping at the dribbling juices, feeling the sheer heat, sensing the spasms of her muscles. All in all, enjoying and savoring her.
Aria, after half a minute, licked her dry lips. Daring to open her eyes. She stared at the shadow-strewn, darkened ceiling, where the moonlight projected through the blinds. " ... you and your m-muzzle," was all she said, sighing. It was a good, grateful sigh.
Ross, in response, raised his head, meeting her steamy gaze with a silly, little smile of his own. A goofy, proud, squeaky smile, as if he were drunk on her. Drunk on femininity. And, in many ways, he absolutely was. He was having trouble focusing. Having trouble thinking. She was the only thing that seemed to exist.
She shifted a bit, sighing, fur lightly-matted with sweat. Snow rabbits, being from the ice, dehydrated twice as quickly as normal furs. They required twice as much water because of it. They often had to stop during sex so she could take little water breaks. "D-darling, would you hand me m-my ... "
" ... water?"
"What?" Ross blinked, cheeks hot beneath the fur. And ears having gorged with just a bit of blood. Just enough to be noticeably rosy-pink. A lighter shade of pink. Not the rosiest of rosy-pinks. But, still.
"Do you need water? You are looking flushed," Aria said, stretching on the couch. But maintaining the same basic position she'd been in.
"I'm, uh ... " He looked down at his drawing pad. The outline had been done, redone, sketched. Very bold, very evident. He'd been filling in the details. Well, as best he could, anyway, with charcoal. It didn't exactly allow for analytical precision. More like a brute, glimpse-like capture. As seen through a foggy filter. But, somehow, it didn't matter. The haziness of the lines made the drawing dreamier.
" ... yes?"
He looked back up, swallowing. "I'm almost done," he assured, quietly. A bit weakly.
An eye-smile. "I see."
"Aria, I'm focusing. I just ... you know, zoned out." His wispy, airy voice was even wispier than normal, due to the fact that his breath was starting to get ahead of him.
"Because you were 'lost in the process,' I take it? Lost in the art?"
"Lost in the art," he repeated, whispering and nodding, meeting her gaze. His cheeks burned beneath his fur. And it was clear from his eyes, and clear from his tone, that the 'art' was her. Not the drawing of her. Not the idea of her. But her. In the fur.
"Well, I suggest you ... "
" ... get on your back," she said, decisively. Knowing what she wanted. Telling him in the nicest way, of course. No harshness or impropriety to her tone. But, still, as requests went, it was a very declarative one.
The mouse wriggled and squeaked. Nakedly flopping down on his back, right in the middle of the warmed-up bed. Where Aria had been laying while he'd given her muzzle. His head on the same pillow. In the same 'dent' her head had left. The pillow still warm from her, as well. Loose strands of their fur on the sheets. Their scents, as well, seemingly soaked into the fabric.
And, without further words, the snow rabbit got on top of him, thighs on his belly. Scooting, scooting down, over his groin, bobtail flickering. 'Til she was at a straddle of his hips. 'Til her paws were flat on his chest, close to his small, male nipples, paw-pads in his soft, warm fur. Feeling his heartbeat. Feeling it beat, beat, beat-a-beat.
" ... Aria," he went, barely audible.
" ... yes," she breathed back, flushed, so much in need. Her breeding drive peaking, screaming for release. She needed to vent the steam. Had to. Wanted to. More than anything. And she knew he felt the same. There was a throbbing sense of desire that seemed to fill the middle of her, spreading to every limb. Every extremity. A terrible yearning. A particular variety of yearning that she'd never felt for any-fur but him.
"I love you," was what he said. Simply. Innocently. Purely.
Her eyes closed for a moment. He told her that every day. But, every time, it made her feel a lump of something. Every time, it humbled her. And, every time, she responded, "As do I love you, as well, Ross." And, eyes open, hanging her head, she raised her hips just a bit, situated herself, and then lowered. Slowly, gyrating slightly, trying not to miss her target.
He was erect enough, by now, that she was able to easily steer herself onto the tip of his modest, circumcised mouse-hood. The tip pushing through her labia, slipping into her vagina. And, exhaling, she paused. And shivered. Savoring that very first second, that very first sensation of penetration. There was nothing more thrilling than that first sensation. Because, oh, you knew what it would lead to. It was such a promising point of pleasure that she had to commemorate it before sighing and sinking down the rest of the way, to an easy, steamy hilt of him. Their bodies merging in sexual, spiritual union.
Ross's breath was shaking, his breaths becoming labored. Weak, barely-audible squeaks spilled from his lips. His mouse-hood smothered and covered by her raw-pink, so-wet muscle. Fitting him perfectly. Snugging and stimulating every part of his sensitive flesh.
She looked down at him, giving a soft, loving mew, beginning to rise. And beginning to fall. Beginning to ride him. Being a rabbit, she had notably strong leg muscles. Good legs. And long foot-paws. Meant for loping. Meant for kicking. And all that lower body strength came in very handy when she wanted to breed him on top.
A squirm, and a squeak, the pleasure making him wriggle. Her motions were firm, and she followed through on all of them. No holding back. No denying or torturing him. No, she gave it all.
She kept him pinned down. Kept him pinned. And kept riding, allowing one arm and paw to stray from his chest to return to her clitoris a bit.
But he weakly shook his head, putting his paw there, instead.
And she nodded gratefully, moving her arm back to his chest. Keeping both arms there, feeling him breathe. Her hips moving in a clockwise motion, steering his mouse-hood, rising a bit, sinking back down. A squishy, squelching sound coming from the source of their union, and fluid dripping out, wetting the fur on his tightening sac.
They went like this for several minutes.
Until she slowed, slowed, and went still, panting. "W-water," she said. She needed another water break.
Paw literally trembling, Ross reached for the bed-side stand, stretching, grabbing the water bottle. It was filled with ice water, and the cubes made muffled clunk-sounds as they sloshed around inside. With a heavy sigh, head sinking into the pillow, he extended the bottle toward her.
She took it. With both paws. And used her teeth to pull open the 'nipple' on the top, leaning her head back and suckling. Squeezing the bottle, as well. Which made water dribble from her lips and down her chin and whisker-tips. Several seconds of this. Until she was done, closing the bottle-top and lightly tossing the bottle aside. It stopped before it could roll off the bed.
" ... y-you feel like silk. Inside. Like ... oh, gosh," the mouse breathed, closing his eyes. Feeling like, maybe, he was making a fool of himself. Trying to tell her how she felt. Trying to word such a thing.
" ... it is alright," she assured him. "You feel very, uh ... full," she said. "You fill the ache that ... " She closed her eyes. " ... I think we should be showing each other how we feel. Rather than trying to explain it. Though there is," she said, eyes opening, "a certain time and place for such words." She panted a little, licking her moistened lips, scratching his belly. Very tenderly, she put her paw-pads flat to his belly and ran them up, up to his chest, to his shoulders, and then back down.
Ross sighed lightly, giving a happy squeak. Feeling her feminine muscles ripple faintly around his shaft. And loving the feel, also, of his fur being caressed like that. So relaxed. He felt so relaxed that ... " ... I could melt. I really," he breathed, "could. One of these days, I'm going to."
"Then I would be left," she said, breasts hanging loosely, "with a pool of mouse. I would be soaked through."
"Mm," was all he could respond with.
And Aria rolled her head about, ears waggling. "The other day," she said, "when I came home ... " She stopped rolling her head, leaning her weight forward a bit. " ... you were crying to music."
Ross's muddy-brown chest rose and fell. His tail, like a wayward rope, trailing across the sheets and just off the edge of the mattress. His whiskers twitched. "I was."
"Beethoven. Sonata No. 8," she said. And she continued to feel his body. Continued to straddle him. But hips still resting. " ... I asked you why it was making you cry, and you said you did not know." A pause. "Having had time to think about it ... "
" ... I still don't know," he told her, anticipating her question.
"Try," she breathed, "for me? I need to know everything is okay."
He swallowed, flushing. " ... maybe, uh, I was just overwhelmed. I mean, I'm better, you know? My anxiety? You've made me a lot better. But it's still there. It ... "
" ... doesn't go away," she said for him, nodding.
"Aria, I, uh ... " He sighed. He didn't want to talk about it right now. Not right now. He'd been more than crying that day. He'd been sobbing. He'd gotten home before Aria, feeling fine. Feeling good, in fact. The music had been so romantic at first. So sweet. So lovely. It helped him relax. And, as it went on, and as he looked around their empty apartment, and out the windows at the static, never-changing skyline of the city, the environment bearing the scars of industry, he began to twitch. And, yes, he had some deep, buried pains. Remnants of sin.
But he'd been redeemed. Saved. So, why should such things continue to plague him with guilt? Yes, he was a mouse. Yes, he was prey. He had fears. Anxieties. Fierce ones. Ones that gave him more nightmares than he cared to recount. But shouldn't he be stronger than that? Was he simply deficient? Hadn't he grown and matured beyond those things? Whatever the case, the music had gone from being the most romantic thing he'd ever heard to the most poignant. And he'd just lost it. He'd just lost it.
Aria, ten minutes later, had come home to find him crying on the couch, curled up. She'd gone to him immediately, ears twiddling in alarm, feeling a dull pain beneath her emotional freeze. For seeing her mouse hurting? Made her hurt. Kneeling down on the floor, stroking his head, she whispered to him. Asking if he was okay. Telling him to talk to her. And he'd done so, in muffled, sniffling squeaks. Apologizing for being so weak. Apologizing for being so emotional. Apologizing for being himself.
But she wouldn't let him do that. And told him so. 'Do not apologize for being the one I love,' she'd told him, soothingly. 'Do not apologize for being a good mouse.'
This had only made him sob more.
Eventually, he'd calmed down. Thanks to her. She'd cheered him back up.
"I cannot cry," Aria said, remembering the incident, her hips raising just a bit. Just a bit. And then going still again. Taking over the conversation, seeing that Ross had stalled. "I can appreciate music. I can be very fond of it. But it cannot affect me enough to make me cry. When I came in and saw you, I ... I was worried," she breathed. "But I also realized what you, as an artist, hope to achieve."
He looked to her. "Yeah?" he whispered, airily.
"You hope to cleanse," she said, "the heart. By expunging all that's built up inside it. Ridding all the negative flotsam through tears, laughter, sweat, twitches. You want to make something like Sonata No. 8, only with words or pictures. Something unique. Something special. Something purely you. To share with the world, to leave behind. Something that can cleanse those it reaches ... in some way, somehow. Something transcendent."
Ross, after a moment, nodded very quietly, whiskers twitching. "I guess that's ... kind of right," he managed to say. "I try not to think of it." A breath. "I just create, darling. If I think about the reasons, it all falls apart. It's like, uh ... in the Bible? Walking on water. Creating art is like walking on water. As long as you don't look down and don't dwell on what you're doing? You can go far. But if, like Peter, you get out there and you suddenly panic? You suddenly think too much about where you are? If you forget that Jesus is in charge of the storm, in charge of the water? That God is with you? Then you sink." A pause. "It all comes down to faith," he said, definitively.
She brushed his cheek with her fingers, with her paw, assuring, "You needn't worry about your faith. It is strong. If it weren't for you? I would not have the faith I currently have ... " When she'd left home, left the North, she'd been trying to distance herself from the secular, logical company of her fellow snow rabbits. And escape the 'breeding parties,' as well. She wanted something more. Devotion. Love. Things that logic hadn't yet explained away. And, then, she'd found Ross.
"Aria ... "
" ... I mean it." Her fingers on his whiskers, now. Barely. And, after a little breath, she tilted her head and added, "But I have taken us on a tangent."
"You hopped us off the pleasure-trail," Ross teased, nodding, his head-fur rustling on his pillow as he nodded.
She eye-smiled brightly. "We shall have to hop back on." She felt, inside her, that his 'stiffness' wasn't so stiff anymore. And, in fact, was too soft to stay in her. So, she reached down with a paw, taking it between her fingers, giving systematic squeezes and so-gentle tugs, thumbing the head every now and then. " ... just relax," she told him. "Just enjoy it."
A deep breath, furry chest rising. And falling as he sighed. He had every intention of doing as told. "Mm ... " He squirmed a little, just a little, his mouse-hood ticking back up with blood. Tick, tick, so, so stiff.
A mew from her, enjoying playing with his organ, and seeing he was ready (again), so getting back into position, sinking back down, and ...
" ... hmm." A throaty, squeaky pleasure-breath from him, his mouse-hood plunged back into that feminine furnace. Into her body, where everything was hot and wet and wonderful.
She rose and fell, spearing herself on his modest length, lifting back up, sinking back down, controlling the feel-good rhythm. His genitals weren't like a male snow rabbit's. Something he was self-consciously aware of. After they'd gotten married eighteen months ago, during those first few weeks of learning each other's bodies, he would let it get to him, convinced he wasn't able to pleasure her like a bigger male could. Like her own species could. Which would lead to him stressing out, making him lose his erection or ejaculate way too early. It had been, at times, a bit awkward. But she'd been patient. Being that rabbits were open-breeders, she'd come into the relationship with much more experience than him. She'd calmed him down, instructed him, taught him how to communicate during intercourse, how to read non-verbal cues, how to work her body, how to pace the motions.
To where, today, their sex was seamless and sizzling, dripping with mutual pleasure. Satisfying in a way only made possible through their fierce intimacy, through their raw, vulnerable knowledge of each other's minds and hearts.
"Mm, mm ... " She was almost hopping, now, rising and falling, bump, bump, bump. Hopping in place on his cock, hunching forward in pleasure, her walls flooding with blood, rippling just a bit, beginning to milk him. "Uhn," she moaned, sinking to a sloppy hilt, gyrating her hips clockwise, clockwise. Then counter-clockwise, ensuring the friction stimulated every part of her walls. And ensuring his flesh was equally stimulated.
Muzzle open, Ross squeaked, chest heaving for breath. Squeak, squeak. High-pitched, effeminate sounds of pleasure, eyes half-open and hazily fixed on her bare, jiggling breasts. Beautiful breasts. And beautiful clitoris, which he thumbed and tapped as best he could, one arm reached to the spot of their union. The other holding weakly to her backside, feeling the rhythm of her riding. His sac swollen and tightening up, sac-fur soaked in her juices, the scent so evident to their noses.
Aria, head leaning back, craning to the ceiling, squeezed her ice-blue eyes shut, shivering hotly from nose to bobtail, having her second orgasm of the evening. Femininity wracked with muscular, fluid-dripping tremors, little earthquakes in the core of her body, flinging shocks of pleasure to all parts of her. Her clitoris tingling with joy, her tail flickering wildly, ears drooping over from the heat. Cervix dipping down just a bit, and vaginal walls squeezing, trembling.
Milking him.
Making him moan. Squeaky sex-moans, soon losing it, with a twitch, twitch, twitching. Giving it. Spoonfuls of steamy-white mouse-seed, countless mouse-seeds, spurting, splattering her womb, filling her treasure. Each ejaculation jerking his mouse-hood. Jerking, by extension, the rest of him. He twitched with bliss, struggling for breath, the feelings washing over him. Whiskers and tail all a-twitch.
"Oh ... oh," Aria panted, a bit dizzy.
Ross, heart hammering in his chest, went limp, squeaking incoherently, eyes closed. Oh, he was ...
... back in the present, blinking.
" ... you draw," she said, still bare, still prim and proper, but now standing behind him. " ... quite well. I like it." Her paws were on his shoulders, the mouse remaining in his chair. Drawing pad in his lap.
"It's not very realistic," was all he said, gently, big ears swiveling at the sound of her breathing. Which was coming very close to the back of his delicate lobes.
"It is whimsical and romantic. It is expressive of you," she said. "I do not care about the realism."
His ears, which had long been flushed, got a bit rosier. "You're just too beautiful to do justice, in words, charcoal, or whatever. You know? I can't," he breathed, eyes closing, "do better than God did ... " His eyes reopened. " ... when He knit you together. I can't capture your beauty. I can only hold it, caress it." A breath. "Admire it."
"Regardless," was her warm, insistent response, putting her black nose in his head-fur. " ... regardless, you are an artist."
"Sometimes, I think that's too pretentious. To say I'm an artist. Isn't everyone? In their own way? I mean, making a baby ... that's creating. A new life? That's art. You know, and who's to say that ... you know, this chair I'm sitting on isn't some kind of art?"
"You are getting into semantics. That is my job," she said, giving a mirthful rabbit-purr.
A moment of silent. "Well, I don't know," he eventually admitted.
"The point remains," Aria continued, massaging his shoulders, "that whether or not you can accurately capture or recreate what God has made? You still have a burning desire to try."
The mouse just looked at the drawing of her.
She continued, "I believe He is proud of that. That it makes Him happy."
"You think so?" was the innocent, wide-eyed whisper, craning his neck a bit, looking to her.
"It would only stand to reason. He is the Father. What father wouldn't enjoy seeing one of his children striving to follow in his paw-steps?"
The mouse bit his lip, whiskers twitching. And he nodded, letting out a breath and carefully putting the drawing pad aside. On the coffee table. So he could leave his chair, stand, and turn around. And face her. And wrap her up in a tender hug.
She returned the embrace. "You have charcoal dust," she whispered playfully, after a moment, "all over you."
"Do I?" His nose was moving about the side of her neck.
"You do."
"Eh, well, so do you, now ... " He trailed. In hugging her, his paws had gone to her lower back, right on her pelt, leaving charcoal-prints where they'd been. Easily washable, of course. He had to smile.
"Very uncharacteristic," she teased, "for such a tidy mouse to be so messy."
"I'm not messy," he objected lightly, beginning to sway with her. Sway, sway, this way and that way, as if waltzing in place.
"No?"
"No." An adamant shake of the head.
"Well," she said, tugging his shirt, lifting it up, up. "You are about to be ... " The shirt peeled off, she tossed it aside.
" ... I, uh, don't consider love-making to be, uh ... "
She was undoing his pants, now. Belt buckle. Button. Zipper. Pulling it all down.
" ... messy," he managed to finish. Giving a sudden, surprised squeak. "Hey ... "
" ... I am sorry," she apologized, sweetly. Having caught his long, ropy tail in his clothes. She untangled it. "Mm. Well," she said, returning to the conversation at paw. " ... if not messy, than what would you consider it?" She got his briefs to his ankles. And lifted both his legs, one at a time. He was now as naked as her. Which was to say: completely.
The mouse simply replied, "Like you said yesterday, about art? Well, isn't love-making an art-form? So, it's ... not messy," he said. "It's purifying."
"Art for love's sake?" she said, raising a brow, now standing nose-to-nose.
"Something like that," was his happy, little squeak, taking her paw and padding with her to the bedroom.
"Aren't you forgetting something?" Aria asked, pausing as they were halfway to the bed. She put her paws to his chest, gently stopping him.
"Mm?" He blinked and whisker-twitched in the dark.
"The cheese," she whispered. "Snow rabbits and cheese?" she reminded.
"Oh," went Ross. Remembering, and scurrying back to the kitchen, returning in just a few seconds. A plastic zip-up bag in tow (with sharp cheddar cheese inside). He was slightly panting.
And she was slightly mewing.
The mouse taking her horizontally to the mattress. Taking his sweet time, as if their actions were set to sonatas. And, with the joys of cheese, snow rabbits, and sex, life was very melodic, indeed.