Goodnight, Plush
The mouse woke. In the morning, in the early morning (it was still dark outside), he woke. Restless. His plush in his arms. And he buried his nose into it, his eyes closed. And breathed. It smelled so warm. Smelled of his own fur. It was a big, soft plush. Of a male kangaroo. The mouse adored him. He was his companion in bed, and was in his arms ... whenever he was at home. Such a comfort ...
"You're such a comfort," he breathed to the plush. "My love," he whispered.
He imagined. His dreamy, sleepy mouse mind trailing ... imagined the plush coming to life. Imagined that, in the middle of the night, the suddenly-living kangaroo would turn him over onto his belly and hug him from behind. And the mouse would sigh and let the roo have his way ... let him bore into him from behind. How he would squeak from it. How wonderfully helpless he would feel. And, afterwards, the mouse would rub and massage those wonderful feet and legs. Those powerful, kicking legs. And they would stumble to the shower, and the roo would pin him to the wall and suck on his mouth, and they would ...
"Oh," the mouse breathed, rolling over onto his belly, pinning the kangaroo plush beneath him. This plush that he'd had for so many months. The one he couldn't sleep without. He tilted his head and kissed the plush's face. Holding the kiss. And pulling back. Nosing the roo. It was a big plush. As big as the mouse's chest, at least. Were he a real roo ...
The mouse could dream that, if this were a real roo, he could lean against his strong chest and be utterly, totally safe. Could breathe. Could lose all of his anxieties and fears, all of his mousey worries. All of his prey-like problems. He could lose them in the roo's arms. They would be so close, the mouse and the roo. They would go everywhere together. They would be together ... the mouse would wake up with his nose in the roo's furry side, and end the day the same way. They would frolic on the couch after watching an old movie, and after getting all the news they needed from the weather report, after having had popcorn. And the mouse would trace his twitching nose down the roo's chest and belly, past his waist, mouth open and waiting, and the roo rubbing the mouse's shoulders, and ... how they would play soccer in the backyard. How the roo would always win, but how the mouse would never hold it against him ...
The mouse, bare in his bed, in the fur, began rubbing his sheath, the member poking out ... and then began rubbing the member ... against the sheets. Against the bottom of the kangaroo plush. And he kissed and sucked on the plush roo's nose, burying his own nose into its fur. Taking a deep breath. Humping his small, furry hips faster against the sheets, hugging and holding the plush for dear life. Afraid to let him go.
The mouse felt his member slide, slide against the sheets. The feeling of the fabric ... eliciting drips and drops of pre, which soaked into the sheets. Nose and whiskers twitching. And his thin mouse tail wavered, wavered behind and above him. In the air. And he squeaked softly, continuing to kiss his plush, whispering privately into its ears ... whispering things that only the plush would know. Things he would tell no one else.
And he lost it. He shivered and arched and squeaked, and then went limp. Feeling spurt after spurt of his seed shooting out and soaking into the sheets and his own fur. His nose sniffing the air, sniffing the scent of it. Mixed with the scent of his sweat. And the scent of his plush.
Shaky, the mouse stumbled out of bed in the dark, almost falling to the ground from his wobbly knees. He took off the sheets, replaced them. Put the soiled sheets in the washer, and came back to bed (after washing up in the bathroom, and making sure his kangaroo plush was clean and safe). And, shuffling back on his foot-paws, eyes squinting with tiredness, the mouse fell back into bed, hugging his roo. His friend. His bedtime companion. His lovely roo ...
He sighed as he held the plush close. The plush had blue eyes. Oh, he couldn't resist blue eyes. He giggled with closed eyes, and wished the problems of tomorrow ... would be fended off. Somehow. And, if not, and if the problems were too much, and if he cried ... he knew the plush would catch his tears.
And, were his roo real, they would go on a trip. They would go far away. To Alaska or somewhere. They would just ... go. And they would see things. Share things. Half of the time, they would be gone, but they would hardly know where, and it would hardly matter. Just that they would always wind up here, back home. And, were all of it true, reality would seem more a dream than it already did. Or, rather, more like a dream ... than the nightmare it could too often be.
For now, the mouse felt good. And, for now, despite all the repressed fears, and despite morning lurking in the hours ahead ... he felt safe. The mouse felt safe. And he sighed and breathed and hugged his plush. His security blanket. And, so, he allowed himself to sleep. But not before whispering through a yawn ...
"Goodnight, plush."