After Hours
He was carrying some kind of sauce. A big pan of sauce, which was red-orange in
color. Spicy. The kind you put on meat. And the mouse, Deering, wrinkled his
nose as he shuffled back into the kitchen. He didn't like the smell of this
stuff. Too strong. With a hint of barbeque. Unpleasant to the mouse, who rarely
ate any kind of meat. But it needed to be stored in the walk-in refrigerator.
For tomorrow. It was evening, an hour after the cafeteria (where he worked, of
course) had closed. And it was just him and one other student. They were on
closing duty tonight. Luck of the draw. It was all so standard, so ... well,
boring, really. Though he hesitated to call it that. Saying that one was bored
or that any given task was boring was ... well, an admission of defeat. Or maybe
it was just lazy. He didn't know.
He should've asked for help. It was a big pan, a lot of sauce. But Deering was
an independent creature. Even in the most dire of circumstances, he would keep
his mouth shut, rather than ask for assistance. He reached the door to the
walk-in, and wondered how he would open the door, which was heavy. Made of
metal. Both his paws were occupied with holding the pan (which was full,
sloshing, and slipping in his grasp). He shook his head. Of course. His tail. He
sighed, yanking open the door with his tail, his thin, long tail.
Some days, Deering thought he might be going insane. Or that he already had.
Some days, he didn't care. This was one of those days. He didn't feel like a
flesh and blood mouse, with warm fur and limbs, with a heart. A natural,
passionate creature. No, he felt mechanical. Like a zombie. Like clockwork. In
this city, this college town. He didn't trust technology. Not entirely. Not like
other creatures did. He was from the countryside. A rural mouse. A farm mouse.
And he felt displaced here. Trapped. Buildings. Roads. Cars. No room to pace, to
breathe. He felt ...
His lengthy, looping thoughts were dashed, his mind reeling, as he bumped into
some boxes. The spicy sauce sloshed over the edges of the pan, spilled onto him,
and he cursed quietly. Flushing. Not all the sauce had spilled, but ... too much.
And onto him. He looked about, anxious. He would have to clean it up. And,
anyway, he couldn't tolerate messes. He slipped out of the walk-in, snatched
some small towels ... and wiped up what he'd spilled. But he, himself, was still
covered in it. And was left holding the towels. He shivered at the spicy smell.
Stepped out of the walk-in (again), and ...
"You should've asked for help." Max. The other student. He was a cat. Gray and
black colored. Silver. Rich fur. A shorthair.
"I didn't know where you were," Deering lied. He had. Of course he had. He had
his large mouse ears, like little satellite dishes on his head.
"Get it cleaned up?"
"What?"
"The sauce."
"Oh. Yes." Deering nodded. Max was taller, bigger. And it wasn't like cats and
mice were enemies anymore, but ... instinct was instinct. Deering didn't trust
cats. And this one ... always had this scent about him, even now. And it mixed
with the smell of the sauce, and the mouse, for the life of him, couldn't figure
out what it was ...
"Is it in your fur?"
"What?"
"The sauce," Max repeated. Eying the mouse. He licked his lips.
Deering saw that. Was it because the cat's lips were dry, or because Deering was
covered in sauce?
"Hmm?"
"Oh," went Deering. "Yes, it is ... unfortunately, it's," he said, "On my fur."
"Well, give me the towels."
Deering did as told.
"I'll put them in the hamper. It's in the bathroom in the maintenance hall. You
can put those clothes ... in the hamper, too," said Max. Referring to the mouse's
messy work clothes. The bathroom happened to be in the locker room.
"Okay," said the mouse, the sauce making him nauseous. Or maybe he was getting
sick. He didn't know. I'm not a hypochondriac, he told himself, if that's what
you're thinking. It's not, he replied. To himself.
"You okay?" the cat asked. Squinting. Eyes squinted, little slits. They looked
so dangerous, those eyes.
"Yes," the mouse replied. "Uh ... yes."
"Good. We're all done, then," Max said, business-like. "I can lock up. I have
the key."
"I know." Deering had deferred to key to him. He hadn't wanted the
responsibility.
"Alright."
"Okay," said Deering, swallowing. That scent ...
They turned off the lights, went through the back door (which led to the empty
maintenance hall), and while the cat locked up, Deering went to the locker room.
Sighing once inside. The sigh seemed to echo. It seemed to unsettle dust.
Max came in. Brushing past the mouse, on his way to his own locker. For his own
change of clothes. He was purring.
Deering opened his locker. An old, rusty locker, and as his paws clutched at and
took out his things, he felt a warm breath ... and spun.
"You okay?" The cat was there. Too close.
"Yes," he said, with more force than intended. "I wish you would stop asking me
that."
"I hope you're not scared of me."
"What?"
"I hope you're not scared of me," Max repeated. Genuine.
"I'm not."
The cat squinted. "You never talk to me. When we're working."
"I don't talk to anyone," Deering said seriously.
"I know."
Pause.
"You should try it," Max continued.
"Talking?"
"Yes."
"I'm talking now. That's my fill."
"For the day?"
"The week."
"I see."
"I need to, uh," said the mouse, taking a breath. "Change." That scent ...
Max was still purring. "There's a shower back there. An open shower stall."
"Um ... "
"You should take a shower. Clean off that sauce."
"Well ... "
"So you don't have to walk all the way back to your room ... smelling like that."
"Well, I can wait."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me ... are you a patient mouse?"
"Look, can I ... anyway, why do you care?"
"If you don't want a shower ... "
"I really need to get going."
" ... I can lick you clean," Max finished.
The mouse was taken aback. A sudden surge of adrenaline and realization. This
cat, in his way, had been ... or was, rather ... hitting on me, the mouse thought.
Coming on to me, or ... and that scent. Realization again dawned on him. That
scent. It was arousal.
The cat waited for an answer, his tail moving like a hypnotizing snake.
The mouse swallowed, throat dry. He'd never faced a situation like this, and
certainly had never taken a sexual invitation. And had never given one out. He
wasn't a risk-taker. Wasn't bold. And yet ... the thought, the sudden, carnal
thought of ... of having sex with Max, a basic stranger, a cat ... of being
physically dominated by this cat, here, in this locker room, at night ... a flood
of strong images, emotions ... pelted the mouse. His breath became shallow. He was
scared. He trembled. He didn't know what to say. His eyes flickered to the door,
the way out. And yet ... a darker side of him begged him to submit, to ...
Max had apparently reached the limits of his patience. For he maneuvered
Deering against the row of lockers, putting the mouse's exposed belly to the
metal, undressing him. Ending any deliberation. Revealing all of the mouse's
light-brown fur, his furry, rodent form. His tail. His everything.
The mouse trembled, shivered, as the cat's paws smoothly flowed up and down his
sides.
"Don't shake," Max told him, in his silky, masculine voice, his feline voice.
With a purr. And with surprising gentleness, whispered into Deering's sensitive
ear, "I'll take care of you, okay?"
"Oh," Deering whispered. He practically melted on the spot. That voice. In his
ear. That purr. That promise.
The cat grinned at the mouse's emotional state, wriggling out of his own
clothes. And Deering, paws on the lockers, still leaning against them, let out a
little gasp as the cat's rough tongue went on a voyage up his back. Licking
through his fur, up the outline of the mouse's spine.
"Where's the sauce?" Max demanded, sniffing, purring.
The mouse swallowed. "My paws. My arms. My ... "
Max turned the mouse around. So that they faced each other. And he licked.
Descended a bit. Licked the mouse's paws, his arms, up through his fur, to his
chest. Licking, lapping. Warm. Wet. Raspy. Stirring the mouse's fur. Deering's
breath was shaky, spiked with arousal, anticipation. Adrenaline. The cat licked
his body as if he were a living lollipop.
"I like how you taste," Max breathed, licking.
"Thank you," Deering said, barely audible.
"You taste ... good. A sugared mouse. Do you like sugar?"
"I guess," Deering breathed. Heart hammering.
"You're sweet."
The mouse exhaled at the intimacy. The tongue. He inhaled. Licked his own lips
dry as the cat's lips mouthed through his fur.
"Like a strawberry. When you dip it in sugar."
Deering let out another breath. The cat still licking him. Purring.
"I guess that would make you a mouse-berry," the cat said, smiling.
Exhale. Swallow. "Uh-huh."
"My tongue's starting to dry out."
The mouse met the cat's eyes. He had stopped licking.
"There's a shower back there," Max said.
"I know," Deering whispered.
The cat grinned. Showing his teeth. "You know cats aren't entirely fond of ...
water," he said.
"Yeah."
"It makes us moody."
"Just ... just ... can we go?" Deering managed, unable to take the teasing. He felt
slightly intoxicated.
"I like that. I like to hear you beg."
"I'll take a shower with you," Deering continued. "I'll ... "
"You're being too proper."
"What?"
"You want to mate me, or you want me to mate you. Wet. Screaming. Yes?"
"Um ... " He took a huge breath. Fighing his worries. And nodded.
"Show it, though. Be raw. Be an animal. Lure me." The cat's eyes suddenly
seemed to glow. Now that he'd tasted his prey ... he was on fire. Deering felt a
spike of fear, wondering ... wondering if he was in over his head. If he would
regret this.
The cat waited, tail still moving like a snake.
The mouse swallowed, coy, nimble. And lowered to all fours. Began to crawl
toward the back, toward the shower. Raising his tail. As his paws and paw-pads
shuffled on the dusty, hard floor, his tail-hole was clearly visible. And his
sack ... swinging, loose but being drawn upward as his member poked out of its
sheath, got firmer ... swinging between his legs. His fur. His hips. His paws. A
young, slender rodent. Submissive. Crawling away. Trembling.
The cat watched, licking his lips. Nodding. Breathing. Breathing. "Oh, that's
it," he whispered. "That's it." His eyes watched the mouse. His prey, his
delicious, beautiful prey. He still had the taste of mouse ... on his tongue. And,
squinting, the cat tensed. Coiled. Pounced.
The mouse squealed, squeaked in fear and ... and whatever else, as the cat landed
on him, flattening him, stealing his breath. They skidded across the floor,
right up to the shower stall. A tangle of fur and limbs.
Max picked Deering up, nudging him inside the open-air stall. If the janitorial
staff, if anyone came into the locker room ... they would be spotted in a second.
Doing what they were about to do.
"Turn on the water," Max instructed.
Deering's paws shook as he did so, fumbling with the knobs. Sending a stream of
warm water into them. Pelting them. Their fur became matted, drenched.
"Oh, my mouse. My darling mouse," the cat breathed, voice betraying a relief. A
sighing relief. He wrapped his arms and paws around Deering. "Oh, I've wanted
you ... all semester long."
"I didn't know," said Deering meekly, shivering, squinting as water ran down
his face.
"Oh," the cat breathed, nipping at Deering's neck. Deering tilted his head,
exhaling. Ears picking up the running water, the sound, as it hit fur and floor.
Max continued, saying, "Let me sow my seed in you. Let's make love like the
animals we are. You and me. Let me," he whispered into the mouse's ear, "Give
you chills."
"Oh, wow," Deering breathed, further intoxicated by the touches, the words.
Everything. Feeling hot feline breath in his ear.
The cat's cock ran through the soft fur on Deering's rump.
Deering let out a breath.
"You look so ... vulnerable," the cat told him, "When you're wet. So cute."
The mouse exhaled again. Flushed.
The cat's cock, guided by his hips, traced down the mouse's rump. Deering
obediently moved his long, thin tail out of the way, wrapping it around the
cat's waist. As an anchor. And the mouse, feeling the cat start to poke at him,
raised to the tips of his foot-paws, paws and arms on the walls of the stall.
Water, warm and wet, running down everything. Every motion feeling like liquid.
The cat's paws wrapped around and hugged the mouse as his hips shoved up, his
cock splitting Deering's tail-hole. Sliding. Digging. To the hilt. And stopping.
"Oh," gasped the mouse, hanging his head. Speared to the cat. Unable to close
his mouth. He spat out water with each breath.
And then the cat, tasting finality, knowing there was no going back, began to
motor into the mouse. Up. Down. Up. Pause. Down. Up, down. In. Out. Sliding
through that tail-hole, into the mouse's rump. Making himself at home. Bumping
to his prostate.
Deering rested his cheek against the wall. Squeaking. Nose and whiskers
twitching, water droplets dripping from his whisker-tips. His ears flushed warm.
He heard Max purring. Like a tiger.
And like a tiger, the cat drove into the mouse. Held to the mouse, humped the
mouse. Paws caressing the mouse's cock, giving it a squeeze each time his hips
thrust up and in.
Deering panted, soaked. Helpless.
"The floor," the cat gasped. "Let's ... oh ... the floor."
Deering nodded with a whimper.
They managed to lower, together, to the wet, puddle-filled floor. On all fours,
Deering let out a huge breath. Squeaked. The cat, on all fours, had a better
angle at him. Was able to push deeper. He crawled closer onto him, draped over
him. Pounding. Humping. Humping.
Deering squeaked out, nose and whiskers twitching weakly. Chest heaving beneath
the weight and action of the cat.
The water pelted, pelted them still. Drenched them. Their fur matted.
Max squeezed Deering's cock. Squeezed. Released. And then began to paw him off.
Deering's knees buckled. He squeaked weakly.
The cat, claws extended, teeth showing, pounded into the mouse.
Deering yelped.
Max roared. Pounding again.
And the mouse felt the spasms, the spurts. Felt a warm flood. Heard the cat
roar, growl. And then felt himself, wet, weak, squeak like a dying, broken
alarm. As a warm wave swept him. He shuddered and shivered as his own seed shot
out. White. Wet. To the puddles on the floor.
And when the cat had pulled out of him, he pulled the mouse up, leaned him back
against the wall of the shower, and kissed him. Hard. Taking his breath away.
Pawing at him. Deering squirmed for breath, pawing back, moaning, tail still
wrapped around Max's waist.
The cat pulled back and gasped. They soaked for a minute more, in each other's
arms. Allowing the warm water to run down their bodies. Deering eventually
managed to turn off the water, and they staggered back out to the locker area ...
and sank to the floor. Wet mouse and wet cat. Recovering.
"Oh," Deering breathed. "Oh." He whimpered.
The cat grinned at him. Purring louder than before.
"Max," Deering whispered, drops dripping from his whisker-tips. He stared
blankly at the floor.
"Yes?"
The words got stuck. The mouse swallowed, blinked, and looked to the cat.
Blushing beneath his fur, sitting there, bare, with his unexpected partner ... he
reached out for one of the cat's paws. Held it. Brought it to his lips. And
kissed it, holding his lips there, and then letting go.
The cat sighed and tilted his head. Smiling warmly. And then his eyes darted,
and he grinned. "I still have the key."
"What?"
"To the cafeteria."
The mouse was confused. And then realized ...
Ten minutes later, Deering was on his back, on the floor of the store-room,
squeaking and crying out like a jungle animal, his cries echoing in the small
space. Bouncing off pots of pans and boxes. Paws sweating, ears burning. Tail
and whiskers twitching. Furry chest heaving. Feeling flushed, faint ... seeped
with pleasure, and still damp from the shower. He was on his back on the floor,
and Max was slurping and sucking his buttered cock, the mouse having rubbed
butter into his fur and on his mouse-hood. And, weakly lying there, through
squinted eyes, the mouse could see strawberry jam dripping, dripping from the
tip of the cat's own cock, and from his furry sack, waiting to be eaten, licked,
sucked ...
Right now, for the first time in a long time (or maybe ever), Deering felt
real. Like a throbbing, pulsing fur and blood mouse. A living, breathing
creature with wants and needs. Feeling totally alive. Feeling ...
"OH, MAX!"
Twenty minutes after, they were in the shower again.
The mouse shoved against the hard, wet wall, weak. Soaked and dripping.
Bleary-eyed. Gaping and squeaking as the cat drove into him. Driving. Driving.
Deering spat out water, breathing shaky. Forced to the tips of his aching
foot-paws every time the cat humped him. The mouse whimpered, eyes closed. And
the cat growled and purred.
Another twenty minutes. They were back in the store room. The cat straddled
Deering's heaving, furry chest. He had lathered the mouse's ears with whipped
cream. Rough tongue proceeding to lap it, lick it off. The mouse's
ultra-sensitive ears burned at the activity. Burned. His fur flooded with heat.
Paws tingling. He could only writhe and spasm as the cat ignored his whispered,
repeated pleas to stop. That his ears were too sensitive. The pleasure so severe
... that it almost hurt.
"Oh ... oh, please," he begged the cat, moaning. Eyes watering shut. Squeaking.
"Almost done," Max assured, paws rubbing the mouse's chest as he licked. "Hold
on, baby. Hold on," he whispered with panting, hot breath, paws stroking through
Deering's fur.
"Oh, please," the mouse whimpered, clutching at the cat's furry hips. Ears
feeling they were on fire. Aflame. The flush running through his entire body.
Sweating beneath the fur. He could barely breath. Sharp jolts of pleasure caused
him to squirm, and the too-sensitive pain behind it ... caused him to whimper,
yelp out.
Seeing he had pushed the mouse to his breaking point (again), had pleasured him
to his limit, the cat took a wanting breath, descending upon Deering's
mouse-hood. Wanting his treat. His reward. And he got it. Sighing through the
nose. And it tasted like strawberry jam. He sighed. And swallowed. And purred
again.
They washed once more. The cat mated him mouse. Once more. Deering could do
nothing to stop him, as the cat banged him in the shower. Again. As the cat
roared, his blood hot, body strong. Dominant. As the cat unloaded into the
mouse. Deering, wet and trembling, unable to form any rational thoughts, took
it. Took it all. Unable to speak. He had not the amazing stamina of the cat. He
was helpless, completely helpless. Drained. Squeaking airily at the throbs of
pleasure that Max brought on. Nose and whiskers weakly twitching.
Twitch-twitching. And drooling from the mouth, being rained on by the water from
the shower.
After the shower, they wound up in the cat's room. In the cat's bed. Max had
easily carried the smaller, lighter mouse there. Deering half-asleep. Tired out.
His arms and paws holding around the cat's neck. Nobody had seen them on their
way back, which was for the better. The cat's room was three stories up from the
cafeteria, a long walk when they were both wet and smelling of each other, and
when the cat was carrying the mouse. Neither wished to have to explain it to
passers-by.
As soon as the cat had locked his door and undressed the mouse, giving him a
jack-rabbit plush (as Deering had, in an airy, sleepy whisper, confessed to the
cat that he couldn't sleep without a plush) Deering had crawled, eyes closed,
into Max's bed. He had sighed. A huge, warm sigh, sniffing the sheets. The
pillows. They smelled of Max. And he curled into the pillows, in a ball, tail
wrapped around him. Asleep in seconds. Hugging the rabbit plush to his chest,
paws clutching it. Sighing.
Max smiled, kneeling beside the bed, watching his mouse ... watching him sleep.
Rest. There was something so very satisfying about watching him do that.
Watching him sleep. How his nose wriggled, how his whiskers twitched. How his
chest rose and fell. How his eyes darted beneath his eyelids in his dreams.
Max smiled warmly. Sighing. And he let his clothes slip off, flipped off the
lights, and crawled into his bed. As he crawled over to the other side of the
mouse, Deering, in his sleep, lifted his head and sniffed. Sniffed. Nose and
whiskers twitching. A very rodent-like impulse. His paws opened and closed on
the plush. His ears swiveled.
Max rested his nose on Deering's for a second. The mouse's cold nose
twitch-twitched, flared, and caught and identified Max's scent. And doing so,
the mouse's body relaxed. The tension left. He settled back down, snuggling up
against the cat's chest, curling up against him, against his sturdy middle.
Which offered strength, protection. From where his ears could hear the cat's
steady heartbeat.
Max kissed Deering's cheek. And laid with him. It was well after hours. Their
young, twilight affair, he knew, would live until morning. It would continue.
Grow.
Deering burrowed further into the sheets, and further against the cat's chest
and fur. The cat held him there.
The two furry souls, squeaky-clean from their last washing, sighed. And slept
in the dark. Moonlight and street-lights filtering, softly, through the window.
Casting over them like a blanket.