Mice in the Milk
"Melancholy."
"What?"
"You seem to be trapped in it," Miss Underwood told him. She had some kind of spark in her eyes, some kind of delight. Some kind of glow. And she spoke so articulately.
Miles shrugged his furry shoulders, whiskers drooping, ears perked. Always listening. They were in the open. Or nearly. They were beneath a sycamore tree. It towered over the two mice. A sentinel.
"Well?" she prodded.
He shrugged again, trapped. What did she want of him? What did she want from him?
"Why do you have to be so grey, hmm?" she asked. Not asking out of spite, or out of meanness. It was a gentle concern. "I worry ... about you."
He seemed taken aback. Vulnerable. "Well," he said, unsure, answering her question. "I just ... that's me." Pause. "You worry?"
She looked into his eyes, avoiding his question. Her twitching nose touching his. "But why?" she asked. "Why are you ... " She trailed.
His eyes darted away from hers. He shrugged again. Stammering, "You, uh, you wanted ... what do you want?" He looked back to her. "You came over here ... "
"To see you," she said simply, clearing her throat. Regaining her confidence, getting back on track. She lived near the now-barren corn field, in a small, white house. On the other side of the gravel road. Out here in the countryside. He lived in an old farmhouse, also a small house. Fit for a mouse like him. Miss Underwood was his nearest neighbor. She continued, "And to suggest we might help each other with the remains of the harvest." It was November. Getting late in the year. Chilled. It was grey and cool right now, in the sky. A stationary mass of slate. And it was drizzling every so lightly. Miles liked that. Such a weather made things feel smaller. It covered you. Sunlight was too expansive.
"Well, I'm mostly done," Miles said, on default. He wasn't. Not really. He had a bit more work to do, but ... he could not accept her help. "I mean ... all the corn's done, and everything."
"I'm sure there's something to be done," she countered, smiling. "You can help me. Then I can help you."
"Um ... " He wasn't entirely sure what she was getting at.
Her nose was now against his. He swallowed.
"Miles," she whispered, putting her mouth to his ear, breathing warmly into it.
He shuddered, took a breath. "Yes?" he whispered back.
"We're both lonely." The honesty of that rang in her tone. A sadness. A longing. "You know that. We're in the countryside. It's a rainy day. Can't you think of anything ... you'd like to do?"
He swallowed again, ears flushing warm as she breathed into them, whispering into him. "Well, uh, it's ... it's not so much a question of what I'd like, but ... "
"But what?" She started nibbling on the edges of his right ear. His eyes went to a close, and then opened again.
"But what's ... what's proper. I mean ... "
"Miles, let's not fight our instincts, huh?" she said, nibbling harder on his ears.
A flushed whimper crept out of his throat, and he tried to push her away with his paws. Afraid. Nervous. But he found his paws were weak. They weren't putting forth much effort in stopping her, despite his reservations.
"Raise your paws," she whispered.
"What?" he whispered back, a bit dizzy.
She guided his paws and arms up, and tugged his shirt off, letting it fall aside. She put her paws on his warm, furry chest, which was heaving a bit now. "Now," she told him, "Do me."
His shaking paws fumbled at the button of her pants. She stopped him. "No, no. Top first," she said.
He swallowed and did as told, removing her shirt and anything else covering her upper half. Both mice bare from the hips up. The rain still drizzling, leaving moist, little droplets dripping from their noses and whiskers, Miss Underwood pushed Miles back into the trunk of the sycamore, going in for a kiss. It was long and wet and warm, and when she pulled back, Miles buckled a bit, slouching down. Eyes flickering to her furry breasts.
She extended a paw. "Come on," she said, as he grasped her paw and she pulled him forward, to a standing position away from the tree. "Let's go into the barn."
"But why? I mean ... " He had trouble formulating his words.
"I think we're going to require some ... privacy," she said simply. With a glow.
He nodded, catching his breath. Breathing the cool air. Feeling the drizzle kiss and glisten his fur. And hers. His eyes on her.
They soon slipped through a rusty door (wobbly on its hinges), and were in the barn. Which smelled of hay and straw and cows. And dust. When they spoke, their voices seemed to echo a bit. In the emptiness. Miles could hear his own breath.
"Where shall we breed, hmm? It's your barn," she told him.
"Um ... " His mind fumbled. He was so distracted now, and his body was pounding. He was ... he could feel his heart.
"You okay?"
He nodded, embarrassed. "Yes," he said simply. Eyes looking to her breasts again, then back to her eyes, then away from her entirely. To the dusty, cob-web filled windows. He hadn't bred with anyone before, and not ... and not for lack of want, but ... lack of opportunity. And he had resolved to save himself for his future mate, whoever she would be. He knew how he latched to things. He knew he would be imprinted on whoever he first gave himself to. Maybe ... maybe Miss Underwood was that someone. But ...
She gave him a gentle smile and squeezed his paw.
"Well, there's, uh," he started, listing the possibilities. "The loft, in the hay. Um ... in the silo. It's empty right now. It's tall, and it magnifies, uh, sounds ... or the milk tank, or ... "
"The milk tank?" she went, perking.
"The cows, after they're milked, I, uh, that's where I keep the milk. It's held and cooled there until the milk truck comes to take it." He realized his throat was dry.
"When does the milk truck come?"
"Not for another ... few hours," he said. He could hear the barely audible sound of the drizzle hitting everything. Windows. Everything. He could still hear his own heart. See her through the somber, monochrome colors that danced in the air.
"Is the milk tank ... full, then?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Come on," she whispered.
Moments later, they had pushed through the door into the milk mouse. The giant silver tank was humming. A device was stirring the milk at a slow, steady pace. Chester turned everything off. Swallowing. Breathing hard. Despite the cool air, he felt his fur being matted with sweat.
Miss Underwood lifted the big lid to the tank, propped it open. Inside, countless gallons of cool, white milk. Rich and creamy. She smiled, looking to Miles.
He padded over to her, looking into the milk. "I'll ... I'll have to dump it if we, uh ... that's a day's worth of ... milk."
"I suppose," she said, waiting.
"But, uh ... " He shrugged. His permission.
She grinned. "Right, then," she said. "Be a good mouse and help me in, hmm?"
He started to do so, but realized she was still dressed from the waist down. His paws quickly fumbled at the button to her pants. Then undid the zipper, pulling everything down, working until he'd gotten her bare. In the fur. She was lithe, but not too thin. She was ... she was very pretty. He swallowed. And she did the same with him, undressing him.
He helped her up and down into the tank, which wasn't entirely roomy. It wasn't meant for what they were about to do. But there was room enough. Inside it was dim, and as Miss Underwood slipped in, the milk sloshed. White. Pearly. Her paws skimmed any cream, and she licked it from her paws. The milk seeped into her fur, turning it a lighter shade of brown. Chester clambered and slipped in after her.
She wasted no time in setting upon him, maneuvering on top of him, pushing him down. His head went below the milk. He held his breath, eyes closed. She pulled him back up. As he gasped and dripped of the stuff, she licked his fur clean. Face. Lips. Ears. Lapping the milk from him as his heavy, hot breathing echoed in the steel tank. Licking cream from his own mouth with his own tongue. They bathed each other in the milk for several minutes, building each other's tension.
Miss Underwood giggled. "You know, I've dunked cookies in milk before I ate them. But never mice." She grinned delightedly, nose sniffing and twitching through his damp fur. Miles' paws went to her back, scritching and running up and down. Running over her hips. Tugging gently on her tail. She nibbled on his ears, squeaking lightly. He fell into a light squeaking himself, and they both writhed warmly in the cold milk, which sloshed and echoed, mixing with the sounds of their breathing and squeaking in the dim, hard space.
Pupils very wide in the dimness, Miles eyed her fur and form. Eyes fluttering before slipping to a close as she lapped his lips and locked to them, licking and falling into a kiss. He squeaked from his throat, burning for her. Wanting her in the worst way. He wriggled and maneuvered out from under her, squirming on top of her. She didn't fight him. She laid back, head above the white, nurturing liquid. Sufficiently firm and erect, and shivering slightly, he poked between her legs. Feeling blind. She spread her legs wider, sloshing the milk more. And Miles found his target, and shuddered as he found her. Was welcomed into her.
He tried to be slow, tried to go gingerly. He pushed his hips forward, digging into her tight, hot interior. Built for him. A perfect fit. It felt so natural. He pushed forward, digging deep. Eyes squeezed shut. Pulled back slowly. He heard her squeaking, the squeaks bouncing off the metal walls of the tanks interior. Her heavy squeaking ringing in his blood-flushed, heated ears. Ears on fire. He grunted and squeaked himself as he gave himself over to the entirety of his instinct. To feeling.
Miss Underwood felt her body being jostled back, being pushed against the wall of the tank with each of Miles' thrusts. She felt his eager innocence, his naivete, his sturdiness. He was squeaking louder, humping her pussy in a drooling yearning. He squeaked as he humped her. The milk sloshing back and forth, up and down, like waves in a sea, splashing into their faces. Chester licked the milk from his lips and nose. Miss Underwood took gulps of it to cool her body down. The air in the tight space was quickly getting muggy and warm.
Miss Underwood reached up with her paws, grabbing Miles' ears. Tugging them, scratching them. He whimpered weakly, going lax a bit, still steadily working her. The warm flushes escalating inside him.
Miss Underwood wriggled around and pushed Miles back into a submissive position, back to the bottom. His vulnerable eyes looked to hers.
"It's okay," she whispered, squeaking and losing breath as she leaned over and kissed him tenderly, still speared to him. Hunched on top of him, she bounced up and down on his cock. Plunging it deep up into her. Controlling the rhythm and motion. He strained to suckle her nipples, but soon fell back.
Chester, pinned helplessly, squeaked loudly, the sound ricocheting in the tank. Urging Miss Underwood onward. She bounced up and down, feeling a melting hot pleasure spreading through her groin, her tail going limp.
"Oh, oh, I ... " She squeaked. "Oh, Miles. Miles," she went, eyes watering.
"Mm, mm," Miles went, whimpering, squeaking. He felt the explosive trickle of seed winding up his shaft. Every sensitive fold of her, every wet, warm muscle. Coaxing him. Milking him amongst the milk.
He pawed at her. At her fur. Licked her fur. Lovingly. Pawing at her, trying to get back on top. She held him down. They thrashed and squeaked together. Loudly. She bounced up and down on him until she felt her paws go numb, and she relented to him, and he eagerly thrashed about, splashing the milk, crawling back on top of her to fully mount and finish them both off.
He squeaked like a wild mouse, not stopping. She squeaked with him, coughing out the milk that splashed around her. He humped her hard, almost madly. Squeaking, squeaking, and then yelping. Baring his teeth. Slamming into her with his remaining energy, spilling into her. Shooting steaming spurts of seed into her insides. She felt them, and gasped, felt convulsions inside her, squeaking and gasping. The two mice were a soaked, milky mess of fur and fluid, hooked together, making animal noises. Outside, the heavens shuddered. Maybe it was thunder.
When it was over, Chester shakily and wearily got out of the tank, knees wobbling as he helped her out. They stood, in the fur, dripping. Their chests heaving, eyes on each other. Chester bent down and opened the valve on the tank, spilling the milk out. Onto the floor, swirling around their foot-paws, and down the drain.
Sloshing through the milky stream, Miss Underwood stood before him, wrapping her arms around his belly and back. She licked his nose. His tail grabbed hers, coiling around it.
"Well, uh," Miles said, but she interrupted him, paw on his lips.
"We better lick each other clean," she finished for him. "Lest we go sour."
He smiled bashfully, but gratefully. In love.
"You're cute, you know that?" she whispered in his ear. Feeling him flush. And then a pause. "Shall we clean off in the hay, then? The loft?"
"I have all day," he told her honestly, the rain pouring hard now outside. Pattering the windows and walls and roof.
She smiled, kissed his cheek. "So do I," she whispered into his ear.