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DAY SEVEN

"Sometimes, I can't tell if you're an angel or a siren," came an airy, passionate confession. It belonged to a male harvest mouse. His pelt was golden, butterscotch. Like ripened wheat. Attired only in navy-blue boxer-briefs, his ropy, prehensile tail swerved through the air, blunt-clawed fingers tracing a pair of pink, velvety wings as he added, "But either way, you make me feel punch-drunk."

"You're pouring it on pretty hard, mousey," the bat insisted. Nearly naked herself, her pelt was hued just as warmly as his. If not warmer. Colored deep rose, ripe carnation. Cotton candy, sweet as watermelon. Or so he always told her. She loved the flattery, even if she feigned indifference.

"I speak only the truth." He mouthed her shoulder before casually drifting to her chin. Nibbling on her jaw, then. They were both glowing in the rays of setting sunlight that streamed through the bedroom windows. It was a late-July evening. The trilling cicadas attested to it.

"You'd do anything to get in my pants." She lolled her neck.

"You make me sound incorrigible," he said, buckteeth grazing her cheek. He peppered her face with little kisses. "I'm completely ... " Kiss, kiss. "Innocent." A mumble. "Your pants came off five minutes ago. I'm still controlling myself, aren't I?"

"Barely. And only cause you're waiting for me to lead," she razzed.

"It's been seven days ... "

"And you're feeling your oats?" The smirking bat arched, extending her wing-arms. They were basically one and the same, ending in elongated digits rather than fully realized paws. "That mean you're gonna be wild, tonight? Raw and unfiltered?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," he promised. "I've been certified sexually organic."

She stifled a laugh. "That was cheesy. Even for you."

"You know you love it." He nuzzled noses, tangling their whiskers. Such a delicate feeling. "You want this as badly as I do." A paw was rubbing at her thighs, bunching up her panties. He began to tug them down. Then stopped to rub his middle finger across her clitoris. "You want me."

She offered no denial. Only, "Keep going." Draping one wing-arms around his back, she breathed, "Seven days, huh?"

"Seven days, two hours. Give or take a few minutes." Far too long, in other words. An eternity. Both his arms came back up. He hugged her, tightly. And loosened her bra while doing so.

"Smooth, as always," she said, of his casual undressing of her. "You're so obsessive, though. To remember the exact time."

"It was right when I got home from work." After some fiddling, he pulled the bra off with his teeth, giving it a head-toss. Then dipped his chin and began kissing her breasts. "We didn't even make it to the bed. You remember it, too." Kiss, kiss. "You just don't want to seem overly sentimental."

"I don't know what you mean," she objected, working his underwear down. Feeling his long, thin tail snaking against her wing-struts. He was thin but fit, a few inches taller than her.

"I'm sensitive and neurotic to a fault. You're the strong, unfazed one." His back arched, hips lifting. He felt his mouse-hood flop free. "We've settled into our respective roles, and you don't want to disrupt the balance."

"At least you got one thing out of your art school education: you learned how to over-think," she accused, lightly.

"You told me when we got really tipsy. Remember? During that blizzard in February, when we were stuck in the house?"

She shook her head, trying to tongue one of his ears.

"You don't want me to think you're soft." He nosed her face until their lips brushed. He licked hers, tenderly. "But I never would." Not in that way, anyway. "You needn't worry."

"Shut up." Her muzzle opened wide, pressing forward and twisting to the right. Long, dexterous bat-tongue worming into his mouth, easily overpowering his. Not that he offered any resistance.

The mouse's eyes closed. Suckle, suckle, smack.

" ... mm ... nothing ever gets by you, does it?" she challenged. He was such a perfectionist.

"I've always had a good memory."

DAY ONE

It was a muggy, cloudy morning.

Third floor of a fairly new medical complex.

"I'm sending you to physical therapy for the back, among other reasons," the doctor said, scribbling something on a light-blue pad of paper. In barely-legible cursive. He was a short, serious-looking beaver. "Twice a week. Down the hall. You can't miss it." He tore the sheet of paper from the pad and handed it over. "We have to get those muscles loosened up. You're too inflexible for someone your age. I'm nearly fifty, practically ancient," he added, trying to be humorous. "You don't want to end up like me until you have to, right?"

"Right." Field nodded, taking the paper and clutching it nervously. His whiskers twitched. I'm only thirty, and I'm already falling apart? Great.

"As for the headaches ... " The doctor crossed his muddy-brown arms, raising a brow, paddle-tail slapping the back of his chair. "Care to elaborate?"

"Oh. Um, well." I'm going to ramble. I just know it. "Past three weeks," the mouse explained again, gesturing with his paws, trying to be more detailed than before (having explained this once), "I've had random pains in other places. Like, uh, just now and then. My back. But never in my head. Well, until now." He paused, waiting for a reaction from the doctor. Nothing. "Starts with a tension in the back, between the shoulder blades, and rotates up front," he continued.

"To the head?"

"Yes. Normally settles on the left side of my face. But there's no pain. Well, there is. But it's mainly a tingling or a numbness in my temple and jaw. And my ears, especially. And, then, last night, me and my mate, um ... "

"You had sex?" the doctor guessed.

Field nodded quietly, avoiding eye contact. "And while it was, uh, going on," he explained, modestly, "I just felt a lot of pressure in my head, and my eye was throbbing at one point. It eventually calmed down, but ... "

"Mm." The doctor nodded, looking very concerned. "Roll up your sleeve. I'm gonna take your blood pressure." He got out a black, Velcro-laced cuff, slipping it over the mouse's paw. Moving it up to his biceps before fastening it. "Just look ahead. Keep your arm raised." A pause. "Oftentimes, furs experience pressure spikes when visiting doctors. We're intimidating, I guess." The beaver chuckled to himself.

Not to mention expensive, Field thought. His whiskers twitched again.

The doctor finally puffed up the cuff. It beeped, beeped. Kept beeping. And then leveled off. "155/88. Yikes. That's way too high." Hitting the release button, he glanced at his nearby computer monitor. "Has been during each of your checkups, actually. You know that?"

"Sorta." Field took the cuff off his arm, setting it aside.

"Does high blood pressure run in your family?"

"My mom takes pills for it, I think."

"Yes. Well, it can be genetic." The beaver nodded. More questions. "Do you smoke? Drink?"

"No."

"You look fairly fit. I assume you exercise and eat well?"

"Mostly. I sometimes have a sweet tooth, but ... "

"Not to sound stereotypical, but your species is known to be twitchy."

"I do get anxious a lot," the mouse repeated, slowly.

"Any particular reason?"

"I don't know." Field shrugged, helplessly. "I just ... I just do. It's just there."

"I see. Well, anxiety and stress can elevate your blood pressure, as well. Obviously. That combined with your family history ... mm, yes. We really need to get this down. The tingling in your head and ears makes me think you're on your way to an incident."

"An incident? Like what? A stroke?" he squeaked in alarm, imagining all the possibilities. "But I do everything right. I mean ... like ... " He swallowed and put a golden paw over his heart.

"Easy, now." The doctor patted the mouse's knee. "Blood pressure, back pain. Could be a combination. You could have a pinched nerve. We'll figure it out."

The harvest mouse bit his lip, paws sweating a bit. He rubbed them on his jean shorts.

"I'm going to put you on a beta blocker, though. Try and calm you down some. You'll take it every day for three months, preferably in the morning with a meal, and then you'll come back in so I can check on your progress."

"Okay."

"Now, it might take a while for your body to adjust to what the pills are trying to do. Could make you feel tired or worn down. You just have to stay with it, regardless. Don't stop taking them." He typed something on his computer. "You need to de-stressify yourself. I know that's not a word, but still. No violent outbursts, overly aggressive exercising. Take it easy for a bit."

Field nodded. Sounded reasonable. "That's fine."

"You might wanna lay off the sex for a while, too."

"What?" His eyes widened.

"Just for a week, maybe."

"A week?" he squeaked.

"That gonna be a problem?" The doctor flashed him an amused, bucktoothed look, waffle-tail slapping his chair again.

"No, I ... no," the mouse stammered embarrassedly. Just that he and Adelaide had been together eight years, now. He couldn't remember going a full week without making love. The most had been, what, five days? And that's only because she'd been visiting her parents out of state while he'd stayed home. Or one of them had been sick. It wasn't because they'd been fighting or lacking in desire. How am I gonna stay off her for an entire week? I don't have the self-control! And, Lord, you know she'll tease me about it. Try and make me slip. And I'll get all submissively aroused by that, and ... " ... I, uh, thought sex lowered blood pressure? It's good for you." Right?

"Yes. Nature wants us to do it." A chuckle. "But you said you had these tingling headache symptoms while you were at it last night?"

"Yeah, but ... "

"There you go, then. Wait a week and go wild. Probably safer to keep yourself from getting too excited until you start to feel better," the doctor repeated, back in his 'serious' mode. "Alright?"

The mouse just sighed weakly.

The beaver gave him a look. "Good." He cleared his throat, snapping his big teeth together. "Now, it could be a pinched nerve, like I said. If so, the physical therapy will help. I can get you an appointment for tomorrow."

DAY TWO

"You seem tense."

Field, on his back and staring at the ceiling, imagined that's what all physical therapists said to their patients. He also imagined, if he were a snarky type, he'd tell her, 'Well, you'd be tense too if you couldn't have sex for a week. Let alone paw. And were going broke paying for these sessions.' Instead, he politely replied, "I'm a twitchy sort." And, honestly, he'd been that way long before today or yesterday. "I've always been a little uptight."

"I see. You sound awfully resigned to that." The squirrel tilted her head, instructing him to, "Straighten your right leg. Lift it. I'm going to push it back down. Don't let me."

He nodded and did so, grimacing a bit.

"Good. Your right leg's stronger than the left, but both need conditioning. Those hamstrings," she chittered, shaking her head. Turning, her bushy tail bobbed about. It was glorious, as squirrel tails usually were. He couldn't help but look. "I'm going to attach some sticky pads to your back. They'll vibrate your muscles, stimulate blood flow. I'll hook you up for about fifteen minutes, alright?"

"Okay."

"I'm a rodent, too, you know. I'm prey," she reminded. "So, I understand what it's like to have all that excess nervous energy. The key is to channel it responsibly. Have you ever gotten a professional massage? Or at least worked with someone to loosen your muscles? A personal trainer, perhaps? Done yoga? Did you play sports in school?"

He didn't know what to answer first. "Um. No? I mean, no trainer, no yoga, no sports." I've been out of school for how long, now? I'm getting old. "Just pick-up basketball with my brothers and cousins."

"And when's the last time you did that?"

"A few days ago."

"And does playing basketball aggravate your back? Your file says you've herniated a disc before."

"Yeah." He hesitated. They usually played outside, in the heat, the elements, on an unforgiving concrete court. "Um ... I just really like to play," was his excuse. He was very competitive, deep down. And had a killer jump shot.

"Well, nothing wrong with that. Just moderate yourself, okay?"

He nodded.

"Don't want a little 'Hoosier Hysteria' leading to a hurt Hoosier," the therapist said, snickering at her own pun. Or whatever kind of joke it was supposed to be. "I'd stop playing until we get you straightened out."

No sex, no basketball? This was getting dim.

"You will be able to play again," she quickly assured, a positive squeak in her tone. "Furs have had far worse injuries than you and continued their activities. From my observations so far, it seems to me the problem lies in your muscle strength. If we stretch and strengthen those muscles, you'll be in better shape. And it'll ease the pressure on your nerves. Also, you should eat more protein. Eggs, nuts, lean meats. It'll help build ... "

"I know," he interrupted.

"Then I trust you'll do it." She gave him a smart, sassy look. "Now, roll onto your side. I'm gonna attach these pads. Two on your lower back, two on your rump." As she attached the first pad, he twitched. She attached the next. Again, the mouse jerked a little. She blinked. "Are you uncomfortable being touched?"

"I'm just not used to it. I mean, outside of my mate," he amended shyly. He'd been a virgin back when he'd gotten together with Adelaide. It wasn't something he liked to admit.

"Oh? Who is she? Or he, maybe?" There was a hint of mirth in the other rodent's tone.

"She."

"She, then. No offense meant."

"It's fine." He was used to it. Got mistaken for a female on the phone at work nearly every day. He had a quiet, gentle voice.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Hmm? Oh. She's, uh ... she's a bat."

"Mm-hmm?" Clearly, the squirrel enjoyed small talk.

"Confident, easygoing. Pretty much the exact opposite of me," Field continued, twitching more as the other two pads were applied. On his rump, as promised. She loosened his belt and tugged his pants down a few inches. His ears blushed rosy-pink at this.

"I find opposites attract," the squirrel said, furling her tail around herself for a moment. And then swishing it aside. Her fur was rich, like polished walnut, scented of some fruity shampoo. She looked incredibly agile, too. "They make up for each other's deficiencies. I couldn't stand to be with someone exactly like me. I drive myself crazy enough as it is."

Field smiled at this.

"Now, since I'm going to be seeing you for the next month or so, you need to get comfortable with me touching you, okay? This is just therapeutic. I'm only trying to help you recuperate and relax." She took on a slow, soothing tone.

"What if I can't?"

"I won't take no for an answer," she whispered, chidingly. Turning, she finally hooked up the pads to wires, and then the wires to a machine. "It's gonna start vibrating. It might feel uncomfortable at first. But that only means it's working." She activated it.

"Ah, it's ... like ... "

"Ants beneath your fur? It's going to promote blood flow to the injured areas."

He nodded, still on his side, tail draping over the side of the examination table like a dangling rope. It stopped just above the floor.

A moment of silence, then, "So, what's your line of work, Field?"

He hesitated. He hated talking about work. "Agriculture. I work at a farm market. Help on my parents' farm, too. Just ... you know, odds and ends." Not exactly a career. He'd tried to become an artist. But didn't have the personality or drive to excel. Besides, he was a better critic than a maker.

"You don't sound too happy about that."

"It's stressful."

"How so?"

"Just is." He closed his eyes. "Like ... " He started and stopped.

"Go on," the squirrel prodded, adjusting the settings on the machine.

He squeaked and wriggled. The sensations coming from the pads felt stronger, now. "The other day, the former owner came in. The market I work at. He's in his eighties. He sold it, along with the adjoining orchard, nearly a decade ago. But he comes by and harasses the current owner now and then. There's this feud going on." A sigh. "Then, additionally, there's tension between our market and the other markets in the area, cause we're the only one with fruit-bearing trees, and they view that as a threat to their businesses. It's just ... " Politics. It gets into everything. "I react to other furs' tension by getting tense myself."

"Tension is only what we allow it to be," she offered, sagely. She adjusted the machine again and then put her paws on his lower back, feeling around with her fingers. "Are you on your foot-paws all day long, then?"

"Most days," he admitted.

"Be sure to watch your posture. No slouching or hunching. I assume you don't stretch before work? Or before your basketball games?"

"No. I, uh, just sorta go in cold."

"You have to stretch first, before any prolonged activity," she scolded, clucking her tongue. "Follow the regimen I'm going to prescribe to you. Also, we need to lessen your anxiety."

He nodded, closing his eyes. "I'm on a medicine for that ... "

"Well, that's a start. Now, while I've got you here, I have a few more questions." She picked up a clipboard. "First, do you have any tennis balls?"

DAY THREE

"She's such a pretty mouse. Don't you agree, Field?"

"What?"

"Sakona," his mother repeated.

"Why are you asking me?" he demanded, evasively. They were at his parents' farmhouse on a Saturday evening. He, Adelaide, his brothers, a few cousins. They'd been baling hay during the day. The males, anyway. Field had driven the tractor. With his back and the physical therapy sessions, he had an excuse not to lift heavy things. But, still, a rare Saturday off from the orchard, and he still had to work! Such was rural life. But it meant carry out pizza for supper. That was something. He reached for a slice of 'four cheese.'

"Just saying. I mean, I thought you'd notice."

"She's nice, yeah," he admitted, taking a bite. He chewed and looked around the kitchen. He had two brothers, Dover and Dandy. The latter had recently taken a mate and was watching a movie with her in the living room. Adelaide was with them. Some of the cousins were eating outside, in the yard. They were probably going to play basketball afterward. It killed Field to watch furs play and not be able to join in. Maybe he and Adelaide could go home before then so he'd be spared from the exclusion.

"What with you and Adelaide, then your poor sister not knowing what she wants ... " Field's younger sister lived out of state and always complained about being mate-less. "Never thought we'd welcome another mouse into the family."

"Not everyone ends up with someone just like them," Field mumbled, taking another bite of pizza. It was fairly good. Not the best he'd ever had, but that was to be expected. "There's no law of attraction."

"Clearly," his mother agreed. "Just look at me and your father."

"Hey," Field's dad injected, looking up from playing with his phone.

"But it would be nice to have at least one grandchild before I die."

Field sighed. "We're capable of reproducing, mother," he insisted, of him and Adelaide. "We just don't want kids." Maybe that would change, someday. The idea was romantic, of course. But that was instinct talking, not his brain. And, besides, they couldn't afford kids. Raising a family wasn't free.

"But hybrids are infertile," his mother continued, never one for tact. "You wouldn't be able to extend the family line very far."

"So?" Field ground his teeth together, feeling his ears beginning to tingle. He was getting upset. And his shoulder blade began to ache.

"At least he up and mated her proper," his father said, putting his phone down to chomp on a pizza slice. Then reaching for a week-old newspaper. He always had to be fiddling with something. "They're not shacking up like rats."

"True." His mother smiled. "I am grateful for that, dear. You do seem to be in love."

"We are," Field deadpanned. He rubbed at his slightly numb jaw, rolling his shoulders slowly.

Adelaide, having just entered the room, overheard a bit of the conversation and couldn't help but comment, "Field's nothing like a rat. Not bulky enough. Has a lot more finesse, too."

"Finesse? What's that mean?" Field's mother asked.

Dover, the middle and mate-less brother, who had also wandered into the kitchen to grab a soda, said, "It means he's delicate. Not very rough." He was studying to be a language teacher and loved to explain every word or phrase someone didn't understand. "She can probably compare him to a rat cause she ... "

"Dover," Field interrupted, wearing a 'shut the hell up' face.

" ... one before she met Field," Dover finished.

Their mother's eyes widened. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing," Field assured.

"Well, I've had suspicions that our daughter-in-law had a lurid past, but I don't want to hear it."

Adelaide needled back with, "So, no stories about the time I had an orgy during a full moon while sucking furs' blood like a vampire?"

"She's joking," Field insisted. About the blood part, anyway.

But his mother had already stopped listening. She shook her head, capillaries showing on her thin, dishy ears. "This isn't something we talk about at the dinner table!"

"Supper," Field's father corrected, trying to stay busy with the newspaper.

His mother shot him a look.

Field's cheeks and ears burned. His back hurt even more. He was tensing up. Deep breaths. Calm down.

Adelaide opened a pizza box. Half of one of the pizzas has been ordered with bugs, specially for her batty diet. "They really skimped on the crickets," she remarked.

DAY FOUR

"Oh, my god. He did it again."

"Field ... "

"He jumped the start!" The mouse leapt like a jack-in-the-box, tail flailing.

"Doesn't mean you have to jump out of your seat." She squinted at the screen. They were at home. Sunday afternoon. Which meant it was time for Field's favorite sport. Auto racing. He had a multitude of snacks arranged on the coffee table, his computer synched into live timing and scoring. Wore team colors, too. He got really into it. "Looked like he went on green to me," Adelaide insisted, seeing the replay. She was only half-watching. There was an open mystery novel in her lap. She worked at the library in the nearest small town and often got free books. The ones that were too old, damaged, or unpopular enough to keep on the shelves.

"Well, okay, technically, yes. He followed the rules. But he brake-checked everyone behind him. It's as good as a jump!"

"Uh-huh." She sprawled back on the couch, lazily. She picked up her book. "How many laps are left?"

He paused from his pacing, paws on hips. "Seventy."

"More than enough for your drivers to make up a few tenths of a second. Settle down."

"I root for hard-luck cases." He shook his head, whiskers twitching. "That's my problem. Leaves me frustrated."

"Frustrated? Hmm." She skipped a beat. "You know what you need?"

"What?" He blinked, innocently.

"To get laid."

"You know I can't!" he squeaked, twitching from withdrawal. "Gah!"

The bat tried not to laugh, but a few chitters slipped out. "If your teams won all the time, Field, you'd come to expect it. It wouldn't carry the same thrill it does now. It would be business-like. Then you'd turn on them and root for someone else."

He opened his muzzle. Then shut it. Then opened it again. "Stop making sense." He flopped back onto the couch beside her and munched on a honey-braided pretzel twist. Crumbs flew off his whisker-tips. "I'm trying to be difficult, here."

"And it's such a cute attempt," she teased. "But, remember, your blood pressure ... "

"I've been taking these pills for how many days, now? They should be working." And they were. He felt a slight difference. But, still ...

"They're not cure-alls."

"I know," he mumbled, grumpily. He rubbed his forehead and glanced at the screen. The lead still hadn't changed. "I eat well. I exercise, get enough rest. It's just hard for me to accept that I can do everything right and still have these problems." He sighed. "As mom would say, 'That's life'!"

"Heh. She's not much for coddling."

"No."

"I'm sorry I egged them on yesterday."

"I really believe that," he replied, passive-aggressively.

The bat frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You like provoking them."

"They were asking for it, Field!"

"I don't care. I was embarrassed. You just ... " He took a deep breath. "Anytime sex enters the conversation with them, it's Awkward City. It's none of their business what we do or what we did before we met each other. Keep it private."

"They started it! Going on and on about Dandy and his mate? She's nice, by the way. But they make me not wanna like her because they favor her over me for no other reason ... "

"I know ... "

" ... than because of my species!"

"It doesn't matter. You just gotta let their steam blow over. You can't add to it. You should know that by now."

"It does matter."

"Furs in their fifties," he said, referring to his parents' age group, "rarely have wholesale changes of heart or mind. Eventually, everyone gets set in their ways and views. That's them. It is what it is."

"If that's what it is, you must be fifty already."

Field clenched his jaw. His cheek tingling, hotly. He rubbed at it with a golden paw. "I'm trying to watch my race."

"Whatever." Adelaide tossed her book aside and crossed her wing-arms. They sat and watched the television for a minute. For all Field's complaining, it had been a competitive affair so far. Just not for the point. The rest of the pack was going at it pretty hard. The cars, like winged rockets, fought wheel to wheel, zipping through twists and turns. The colors sparkling in the sun. The engines alternating between velvety purrs and powerful roars. They were on a road course this week after a stretch of ovals.

After a moment, Adelaide softened her tone and said, "Your drivers aren't doing too bad. Fourth and tenth."

"Yeah."

She gathered her book back up.

"I wish we could afford to go to more races." They went to the Indy 500 every year, of course. It was almost a birthright. But they didn't have the money to travel to more. "I wish we could afford to go anywhere," he lamented.

"Someday, we'll be able to."

He nodded uncertainly, without blinking. Trying not to get depressed. Staring at the screen. "Almost time for pit stops," he whispered.

"When I said I was sorry, I wasn't being facetious."

"You often are, though."

"And you're too stubborn, by far. Relax. That's what all the doctors have been trying to tell you."

"Do you think I don't want to? I do! I just ... " It was instinct. He trailed off with a sigh. Change the subject. "How come your family's so much more normal than mine?"

"Because they live out of state and we never see them? If we saw them several times a week, you'd hone in on their foibles pretty fast. Believe me. I know I do."

"Foibles." He skipped a beat. "I can't take that word seriously."

She smiled, lightly.

"I love my family," Field added. "I do. But they ... this whole state, actually, is way too conservative and uptight."

"And you're not that way at all," she ribbed.

"We just went over that. Like, three or four times." A twitch. "I've loosened up considerably since I met you." He shook his head. "Oh, great. Look at this. Mate-cam! I hate that. They just ogle the drivers' hot mates looking worried in the pits instead of watching the cars race."

"Because it's turning into a parade."

"I don't care."

She looked from the television to him. "Fast cars and females." She let that linger. "They sell. Don't be a hypocrite. Can't tell me you're not interested in both."

"Well, they both get the blood moving. I'll admit it." He squeaked and swallowed. "But if I were a race car driver, I'd get jealous about TV ogling you. I wouldn't want that."

"If you were a race car driver? Hmm. I remember one time ... "

"I know what you're gonna say, and it's not ... "

"I put on one of your racing jerseys. Nothing but, if I recall. And you were like one of those cartoon males, you know? Eyes turning into hearts and pulsing out of your head. You practically banged me through a wall."

"I did not." He paused. "Anyway, so what?" His ears went red-hot. "You looked good in it."

"Sexy? Like a grid girl?"

"Indy Car doesn't have grid girls. They actually have female drivers." He straightened his posture.

"Oh, sorry," she teased. "Such an enlightened sport. I'd be a driver, then? And you'd be a fan, I guess? Coming into the paddock to get my 'autograph' ... "

"Mm-f ... Adelaide, stop it. I'm trying to watch."

"It's a commercial," she pointed out. "You have definite kinks, Field. Deny it all you want. You think with your penis an awful lot." She reached out to rub one of his delicate ears. "And your lobes."

He shivered helplessly. "Well, you, uh, think with your ... whatever. Having orgies before you met me." He twisted his head away, cheeks hot. "Breeding with predators?" He huffed. She'd told him stories. "Fantasy is not kinky." He didn't like that word. Maybe it was his conservative upbringing, but it sounded so fetishistic. "I don't obsess about anything that isn't perfectly natural."

"Like screwing me on the side pod of an Indy Car? While the engine is revving?" she murred.

"It'd be too loud," he mumbled lamely.

"We'll use protection," she promised sultrily. "Earplugs."

He laughed. "Adelaide ... " A sudden twitch. The eye, again. Throbbing from behind. I wish I could fuck her right now. But I can't. Dammit. "I need to go get a glass of ice water." He stood up, stretching to the tips of his bare foot-paws and wind milling his arms a few times. "Someone needs to stall in a run-off area or something."

"I'll let you know if anything crazy happens."

"I bet," he said as he moved by her.

She grabbed at his tail.

Squeak!

DAY FIVE

"Hoosier Orchard," said Field as brightly as he could, holding the telephone to his big, fleshy ear. The voice on the other end belonged to an older female. "Raspberries?" he responded, lightly. "No, we don't grow those." A pause, looking over his shoulder. No customers. That was good. He hated having to ring up transactions while talking on the phone. Never went well.

"We did, but that was about fifteen years ago, at least." Furs would swear they'd picked berries here last summer. With their kids! They took pictures! Except, well, no, they didn't. This was solely an apple orchard. A few cherry trees. Everything else was shipped in. "I can take down your name and number," he finally advised. The lady-fur was beginning to fret. I make homemade raspberry jam every year! I can't live without it! "We'll call you if we get any from somewhere else."

He reached for an ink pen. It didn't have a cap. Why did everything get lost around here? "What was your number, again?" He leaned over to write and hesitated. My back. I shouldn't bend over like that. Also, I really need to do the exercises the therapist gave me. I'm supposed to do them three times a day. I've only been doing them twice. But it was hard to manage when you worked nine-hour shifts. "Thank you. Yes. Have a good day." He sighed and hung up the phone.

"Special order?" Kessler, a middle-aged female cardinal, asked. It was she and Field, today. Plus the store manager and owner, but they were outside or in the back. Or somewhere.

"How'd you guess?" Field asked dryly. He moved away from the register. It was too hot to wander around, but it was also too hot to stay in one place. So, he approached a nearby shelf, rearranging some merchandise. "I wanna try this," he said, grabbing a bottle.

"The vanilla?" Kessler asked, dismissively. "Prefer chocolate."

"It says it's 'Mexican vanilla'," Field added, as if that made all the difference. He turned it upside down. The liquid inside with a rich, sweet-looking brown. "I bet it smells good. And it has a cork instead of a screw cap. That's how you know it's fancy."

The cardinal chuckled. "We're window shopping in our own store. How's that for pathetic?"

"I probably spend more here than all the other employees combined," Field insisted. Ten pound boxes of blueberries. Peck boxes of peaches. Countless bushels of apples. The mouse gorged on fruit for half the year and then spent the other half in withdrawal. He put the vanilla back. A sweat droplet flicked off his whiskers. "How hot is it?"

"Ninety-one degrees. That's what the news said last night. Feels like more."

"If it feels like more, why don't they just call it more?" he asked, tersely. "I never understood that. I mean, I guess perception and reality aren't the same thing, but what's reality without it?"

"That vanilla have alcohol in it? Sounds like you've been drinking some."? "I'm just thinking out loud." The mouse panted, moving away from the shelf and returning to the register. They had a customer. A young female snow rabbit, and a very buxom one at that. She was wearing a very revealing tank top and had a commanding hop to her step. She's Russian, Field guessed immediately. Or something of Eastern European lineage. I can tell.

Sure enough, once at the checkout counter, she planted her delicate, white-furred paws down and stated, in a thick accent, "I come for the picking of the tart cherry. Where at." Her fluffy-white bobtail flickered upward in preparation for a response, ice-blue eyes sharp and defined.

Field, lingering behind the counter, noted that the Russian customers rarely phrased questions as questions. They dictated. Demanded. Bartered. It made them seem quite intimidating. Whether this was on purpose or not, he didn't know. Perhaps it was just a quirk in their culture?

Kessler pointed with a wing-arm. "That way."

Wrinkling her brow, the snow rabbit seemed miffed that the cardinal wasn't intimidated by her posturing or flustered by her body. "I ask mouse," she decided, twiddling her long ears. The heat was weighing on her, but she was trying not to show it. "Where is cherry."

"It's, uh, that way," Field echoed, shyly. Every time the snow rabbit moved, he feared an avalanche. Her breasts were so large and supple. He tried not to stare. But she was fetching. And when you'd only slept with one fur in your entire life, you couldn't help but wonder what it might be like to ... " ... like ... down the end of the main path." A deep, flustered breath. Working retail, you had a customer service mode. You could push all distractions aside when you toggled into it. "There aren't many left, to be honest. Ladders are still out there. You're welcome to try, but we're mainly picking early cooking apples, Lodi and Yellow Transparent, good for sauce and ... "

"Da," the snow rabbit interrupted, spinning on a dime and hop-stepping away. She swiped a few picking bags and disappeared into the orchard.

Field exhaled. "You're welcome."

"Firecracker, isn't she?" Kessler remarked.

"Mm?" The mouse smoothed at his button-up t-shirt. "Didn't notice."

The bird scoffed. "Course you did. Your muzzle was practically opening for her tits. You might be a waif, but ... "

"I'm not a waif." He made a face. "And there's a difference between acknowledging something and taking it to heart. Yes, she was ... "

"An ice-hot bunny."

"A well-built customer. But I only have room in my heart for one."

The bird gagged when she saw the look in the mouse's eyes. "You'd never make it as a male avian," she muttered, ambling off. "Can't woo female birds with such strict scruples."

"Well, I'm brilliantly colored already, so I'm halfway there!" he shot back. The only way to deal with Kessler was to match her snark.

"Hah," was her beak-clacking response.

Speaking of winged things. Adelaide's probably getting ready to leave the library right now, Field realized, glancing at the clock. She'll probably have a new stack of free books for the week. Such a fast reader. He'd asked her once why she didn't read romances. She'd told him there wasn't any point. She had the real thing. His eyes watered just thinking about that.

DAY SIX

He couldn't sleep. At all. The mouse had always preferred summer to winter, but he was having doubts as he stared, fur matted with sweat, at the dark ceiling. The central cooling was only set to seventy-six. To save money. And the insulation in this old house wasn't the best. The muggy night was getting to him.

Adelaide was asleep beside him, on her side. Wing-arms pointing here and there. Her sweeping ears would twitch now and then. He turned to face her. His 'symptoms' had started to lessen. Maybe tomorrow, we can make love? Dance that billion year-old dance. I know the moves by heart.

Eventually, he sat up, swung his foot-paws o'er the side of the bed. Leaving the bedroom, he went to splash his face with cold water, squinting at his reflection in the mirror. His whiskers shimmered.

There were other ways to showcase his love for his mate. Poetry, perhaps? He could paint for her, even. He'd done that before. Cook an extravagant meal. But nothing had the raw power or startling immediacy of sex. Nothing screamed 'this is me, now, only for you.' It was the closest thing to being one. The furthest thing from being alone. It was wonderful. And awesome. Healthy and vital. And, God, it was pleasurable, and he ached for it. Ached for her.

I can't take it anymore!

In the fur, he wandered into the kitchen. Opening cupboards, trying to distract himself. He wasn't really hungry. Not for anything they had, anyway. So, he went into the porch and did a few of the exercise routines his therapist assigned. Eventually, he went outside, taking a seat on the wooden steps in front of their cozy, rural house.

He counted lightning bugs and looked at the stars for a moment, then closed his eyes, sending his innermost thoughts to the heavens. It wasn't praying, exactly. He'd stopped doing that years ago. But, still ...

After a few minutes, the screen door creaked open behind him. "Field?" came the whisper.

"Yeah?" he replied vulnerably, looking over his shoulder. She was as bare as him. And hotter than anything the summer could hope to manage. Even when we're old and graying, I'll think so. I'm hers for life.

"Come back to bed." She reached out.

Paw touched wing. And he followed her back.

DAY SEVEN

He laid atop her. Nothing between them, now, but eight years of memory and desire. And gold and pink fur.

"I don't want to move another inch for the rest of my life," was his affectionate mumble.

"That's too bad." She blew on his whiskers. "Cause sex involves a little movement."

"You know what I mean."

"Mm ... mm-hmm." Their muzzles meshed. Kiss by kiss, tension melted away. Became a non-entity. "You're sure nothing's numb or tingling?" she asked him between tongue-heavy lip-locks.

"There's only one thing that's tingling right now, and it's definitely supposed to be."

She giggled, reaching down between his legs. "This, maybe?" she asked, playing coy.

"Close." She had a hold of his furry sac. "A little to the north."

"In due time," she teased, rolling his large orbs around a bit. They were already swelling, pulling tight to his body. "I wonder why rodents have such huge balls?"

"Probably," he panted, groping one of her breasts, tweaking the nipple, "to impress bats." He nibbled on her jaw-line with his buckteeth. "Is it working?"

"More than you know." Her wingtip slid up, big thumb hooking around his sensitive, dribbling penis. She squeezed it and started stroking.

He squeaked, practically melting on the spot.

"Now, Field ... "

No response at first. Then, "Yeah?"

"Warm me up."

"But it's so hot already," he murmured. "You're so hot."

"Oh?" she cooed, playfully, giving him another slow pump, beginning to wag her thumb o'er his glans.

"Mm-h!"

"That's sweet. But you know what I'm asking for."

He did, indeed. Everything blurred as he sank down her body like a setting sun, golden, gleaming, kissing her breasts and belly. Then her hips. And loins. And thighs. Her entire lemonade-pink landscape. He pried her legs apart, honing in on her prize. Or was it his, now? He stared at it for a moment. Up close. In the romantic, slanting light. Her pussy. "Such a lovely flower. I long to pollinate it."

"By all means. My nectar is yours," she replied, with matching formality.

A dimpled smile. Followed by a tentative lick. Soon, outright lapping at her petals, then between them, giving shallow scoops with his tongue. Her sweet, tangy taste. There was nothing to compare. The licks gave way to kissing, nibbling. Sucking. He loosely mouthed at her clitoris, dancing his tongue-tip upon it.

She chittered with approval, knees bent and foot-paws dangling, rubbing her wings against the backs of his sensitive, blood-gorged ears.

Letting his nose drift through her loin-fur, he kissed his way up to her belly. Eyes closed, breath shaking, he whispered, "I love you so much."

Her heart skipped a beat. It always did. "I love you, too."

He opened his eyes again.

Gazes locked. Her own eyes plum-purple, fully dilated. "What are you thinking?"

"It's beyond words."

"Show me," she insisted.

Heaving with anticipation, he crawled even with her.

The bat's wing-arms wrapped around him, pulling him forward, keeping him close. Legs locking round him, too. Heels digging into his calves. She was ready.

The mouse positioned himself, aligning his hips to hers. Dipping down, angling his stiff, bobbing shaft, he poked at her with the blunt, drooling tip until, oh, finally, after so long a wait! He found his mark. Slid inside her. A single motion, so smooth and wet. Simple, divine. Like a knife through butter. Hilting between five and six inches.

Breathing audibly beneath him, the bat wormed her long tongue along his earlobes.

After a dizzy delay, the mouse pulled back. And bumped forward. Starting a true rhythm. "Ah-h ... "

"Mm," she confirmed, arching beneath him. His girth was more impressive than his length. But that was to her benefit. She felt full. Her walls snugly clinging to his shaft.

After a few minutes of sweet, steady humping, he lost control and began outright rutting her. Fur flew, shedding and swirling in the light. Squeaks and chitters filled the stuffy, summer-hot room. The bed lurched, wooden headboard smacking the wall as it had done so many times before, leaving a permanent indent of their passion.

Toes curling, her thumbs dug into his pert, golden-furred rump. His tail was seeking to curl around her ankle. Or anything it could find. She let it. The mouse worked himself into a golden froth before she interrupted with, "S-slow ... stop. Field. I wanna ... "

"Mm? What?" he panted deliriously, reigning himself in. "Why? I'm ... I'm so close. I just want ... " A deep breath. "You feel so good," he blurted.

"So do you," was her breathy reply. "But I wanna ride you." Really. Badly. Her breasts were heaving beneath the weight of his chest. Nipples as hard as rubies. "I assume you're still feeling those oats?"

"Uh-huh," he sighed, hugging her tight. Rolling to his right. Just like that, they swapped spots. He was now flat on his back, tail side winding on the sheets.

The bat rose up with authority, straddling his hips. And his erection. Keeping him pinned down with her wing-arms. "Don't buck me off."

"Have I ever?" he slurred.

"Once or twice." She gave him a hot, hazy look, flashing her fangs and immediately getting to work. Slanting her curvy hips. First to the right, then behind. Moving to the left. A slow, steering circle before lifting up and falling down quickly. Their genitals squelching, lewdly.

"Mm-h. Ah." The mouse groaned. She was bouncing with such abandon that he could only lie there and take it. And watch her breasts jiggle. Oh, what a sight! He grabbed at them. When his arms tired, he simply dropped his paws to her hips, those pink hips. Slid his fingers around to her rump, groping and spreading the soft-furred cheeks. Massaging her tail-base, idly.

The bat began to chitter, echo-bursting into the air. Even flapping her wing-arms a few times. She was getting close! Her weight came crashing down against his hips at least once a second, maybe more, matching the frantic beating of his heart.

Field's throbbing essence tingled like a lit fuse, a stick of dynamite. Oh, her glorious body. Like the winged goddess Nike. Victory! Climax! He succumbed to her. Sharp waves of orgasmic pleasure clapping over him, knocking him senseless. "Uh. Huh!" He let out air, feeling his seed pulse out of him in electric, creamy spurts. He painted her slick, steamy tunnel, flooded her womb. So fully that the excess was already seeping back out. He felt it dribbling down his sac and pooling on the sheets. A beautiful mess.

Adelaide soon joined him at the peak. Her sex fluttered, then rippled, wracked with semi-violent spasms, flinging ecstasy across her entire body. She squealed loudly, nectar leaking from her pussy as she slumped forward.

The mouse, eyes closed, rubbed her backside. Up and down. She was so warm and soft.

"Mousey."

Hugging her tightly, their scents heavily mingling, he could only breathe, "My bat."

Outside, the sun had set. The crickets replaced the cicadas, along with cooler air. The day was over.

"Satisfied?" she finally asked. Dismounting and sprawling beside him. She rubbed a pink foot-paw against his ankle. Their toes touched.

He rolled onto his side, facing her, limp cock glistening with their combined juices. "I was noisy enough, wasn't I?"

"Like a wild beast."

He beamed proudly, awash in afterglow. And moved his muzzle to one of her ears to breathe, "You make me so happy. The longest seven days of my life just ended." A tender nuzzle before adding, "My thirst has been quenched. My relief is palpable. You were ... "

She cut him off with a deep, emotional kiss.

So worth the wait.