FSE

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Outside, all through the pasture-laden countryside, a slate-grey permeated, seeping into the woods and descending upon the creek. A deepening cadet-blue spawning twilight layers of moody clouds in the sky, high up, at the zenith. It was a chilly, November weekend, the weather having a personality of its own, lapping up the last leaves in the nearly-naked trees. Drops of burgundy-colored maple and candy corn oak swirling, collecting on the ground in big, stretching piles, some of them escaping and skittering across the gravel road.

You never raked leaves in rural places. The breeze, the elements, all that. Raked them for you. And if they didn't, then so what? The grass always grew back, come spring, just as green. Fallen leaves weren't a blight. But, rather, a rustic, comforting sight. A poignant, colorful reminder of the season. You prided yourself on having an anti-manicured lawn. In the summer, sure, you took care of it, mowed it, weeded the flower beds, but when the season turned, you resigned from that, and let nature run its course. Let it take over. You respected it enough to submit. After all, you lived in its territory, not the other way around.

Inside, though, in the old, white farm-house, in the kitchen, simmering some kind of soup (cream of broccoli, canned) on the red-hot oven-top burner, the honey-tan mouse blew out a breath. So much to take in. So much for the senses. So much to reflect on. So 'autumn-y' was autumn.

So, yes, another big breath (was certainly called for!), fighting a little yawn, and shaking his head as he insisted, thoughts coming back to more immediate, suppertime matters, " ... it's not ... mm ... " The yawn almost came back, but was conquered. For now. " ... not as good as homemade. As the 'real stuff'." A pause, adding, "It won't be. Adelaide ... " His whiskers twitched with stubbornness. That certain kind of 'mousey stubbornness,' that brow-furrowing, unintentionally cute and innocent kind. You couldn't really get mad at that, now, could you?

"It's cheaper, and there's less leftovers," the pink-furred bat insisted, slicing French bread at the counter, lit by the overhead sink-light. " ... less to waste afterward. You can't make small portions of homemade soup. You gotta make big-serving recipes. With lots of separate ingredients." A pause. "We're on an increasingly tight budget. A bunch of broccoli alone is, like, what? Two-fifty? Two seventy-five?" A slight head-tilt. "The soup in the can was under a dollar."

"You can make the recipe in half."

"Field ... "

His whiskers twitched more as he stirred the soup with a silver-colored spoon. "I bet it has a lot of salt." He said it with a mumble-mumble. A mousey grumble. His long, ropy flesh-tail snaking about, a little aimlessly.

"Reduced sodium."

A pause. "Well, I bet ... "

" ... darling," was the restrained, giggle-chittering interruption. Giving him a fang-showing look. A sharp look, for sure. "You're gonna make me feel mischievous if you keep it up."

"Keep what up?" His eyes went wide, blue-grey and innocent. "What?" Whiskers twitched, on top of it all.

"Mm," was her only response. A sound from the throat. More an instinctual response than an intellectual one. Mouses didn't know their own cuteness. They were impervious to it. They just didn't know ... " ... how delicious this is going to be," she whispered. "Trust me."

" ... you're ... " A swallow, looking around the linoleum-floored kitchen before meeting her eyes. " ... this is still about the soup, right?" He whispered it, as if God might be listening.

"Stir, Field." She pointed a blunt-clawed, pretty-padded paw at the hot pan, with a dominant glint in her deep-pink eyes. "Stir ... else it'll get that skin stuff on the top."

"I am stirring. I am, I am," was the quiet, wispy reply. Submitting to her command. No mistaking she was the dominant partner in this mate-ship. He was an effeminate thing. "I'm just saying that soup from a can ... "

" ... we just went over this, mm?" Done with the bread, Adelaide fetched a baking sheet. Spacing the buttered slices about, and then padding over to her husband. " ... oven," she said. "Open."

And the mouse arched out of the way, with a dainty wriggle, giving her enough room to open the oven door, put the pan in, and set the heat. His eyes looking her over, briefly, as she did so. The pinks of her. Were enough to get lost in. Those wings? Those blanketing, gravity-fighting things? To be caught up in them. Mm ...

" ... just gonna give 'em five minutes. Just to warm 'em." She leaned against the oven, now. The stove-top. Rump against the handle of the oven-door. Facing the opposite direction of her husband, but shoulder-to-shoulder, all the same. "Don't want 'em crispy. Bread shouldn't crunch when you eat it. Like, crackle, and a bit of ... like just-baked bread? A little flaky is good, but ... "

" ... bread shouldn't make noises when you chew it."

A lazy smile. "Pretty much," she affirmed, with a slight sigh. She stretched a bit, opening her winged arms. Unfurling them to full span. "Soup should be ready soon?" The membranes of her wing-edges brushed the edges of the mouse's ears. Maybe it was errant. Maybe.

"Well, the broccoli parts aren't tender just yet." Field, swallowing and keeping his focus, poked at them with the tip of his spoon, frowning. "It's hard to tell, though, if this is broccoli, or ... or artificial mono-sodium-something ... " He made a further face. "Too many ingredients."

"You're being very wriggly tonight, you know that?" she went, ignoring the comment. Ignoring his blabber-mousings. And, instead, zeroing in on his emotional state. As she was prone to do. She was fully telepathic, after all.

"Wriggly?"

"Yeah, you know, like ... a bit heady, a bit squirmy, a bit obstinate. Stubborn." A certified nod, and a playful squint. "Wriggly." Her pupils began to dilate. "I would tell you to stop playing innocent with me, but ... mouses are naturally," she breathed, "innocent. You're not playing. It really is genuine." A sigh, and a declarative, lip-licking, "You need some taming."

"No."

"Yes." Assertiveness in her tone.

Biting down, muzzle shut, he gave a head-shake, ears swiveling atop his head. Always, always with the mousey motions.

"Yes. Now, come on ... let's calm down. I know you're tired," she whispered, turning about, slipping behind him, her paws going to his shoulders. And, then, slowly, to his sides. Squeezing those sides through his warm sweatshirt, which was navy-blue with gold lettering that read: 'Play like a champion today.' With an emerald shamrock beneath it. A Notre Dame sweatshirt. As Field, being a Hoosier mouse, born and bred, was all about his Indiana teams. "Am I gonna have to telepathically 'sedate' you during the Colts game tomorrow?"

"If they decide to stop being the 'Cardiac Colts,' then maybe ... "

" ... two wins in a row. Versus division leaders. Favorable schedule ahead. I'd say they're turning it around. They'll make the playoffs. They won the Super Bowl two years ago when they looked to have no chance. Could be the same here."

"Well, I'm just glad they won it when they did."

" ... I remember how excited you were." A giggle-chitter. " ... heh. Remember?"

A deep blush.

" ... seem to recall we ... "

" ... Adelaide, I remember," he insisted, shyly.

" ... in the back of the pick-up truck, when we got back from your family's house? And it was, like, below freezing. Really below. I honestly couldn't feel my nose and toes when we were done. I really couldn't."

Very demurely, he supplied, whispering and rubbing his own cheeks, " ... it only took five minutes."

Chitters! " ... well, so? It was, like, twelve degrees, and we were overdosing on goofy giddiness. I remember enjoying it. Heh. We still had our coats on, and you had your ear-mittens and tail-sock, we just had our pants a bit down ... was all." A ribbing nudge, recalling, "Next morning, I found mouse semen frozen, literally frozen ... in a little pool on the floor of the truck-bed. First time I ever saw something like that, ever. In our hurry, I think we made a mess."

" ... well ... well, anyway, I was really glad they won the Super Bowl. I was excited." He left it at that, flushed, clearing his throat, and resuming, " ... if they never had, you know, I'd be even more worried. I'm mellower about it now. About my sports. I keep it more in perspective."

More chitters. " ... yeah, right. Indy Car races, Colts games, Butler, Notre Dame, Purdue games, even IU games? All of it. All your Hoosier rooting interests. You got a whole level of ... up-the-wall scurrying and television-squeaking, each time. You just can't help yourself. It's very entertaining."

"I'm not that bad," he stressed.

"Mm, cause you got me keeping your tail to the floor. I keep you from gettin' too out of paw, don't I?"

He ignored her comment, or tried to, not because he didn't like being teased by her. He did like being teased by her. But it was just making him flutter and stammer, and he just ... just continued, as calmly as he could, " ... anyway, it's just gonna go down to the last game." Whiskers twitched. "For the Colts, I mean. Normally, they're so dominant, that they have a big cushion. Margin for error, you know. This year, it's ... clawing and scrabbling."

"Makes it different. Puts things on their head. Maybe you'll be surprised," she whispered. "You worry too much." Still whispering, barely, barely audible, right into his ear. And more squeezes. "About too many little things."

A squeak, and another. At the squeeze, and shivers, too, from her warm, whispered breath against his sensitive ear.

" ... I don't give you ear-sex enough," she said, quietly, casually. A warmth to her tone.

"Adelaide ... " Deep blushing.

"Well, I don't. I mean, you're a mouse. You got these incredibly cute, visible ... erogenous ears. You can climax from them. I should be gobbling them up every time."

He was quiet for a moment.

And she put her nose on the back of his neck, hugging, just breathing.

" ... it ... it's just a delicate," Field began to say, "thing, doing that. Takes patience, and ... you work 'em too hard, and it hurts. You work 'em too light, and it fizzles out."

"I know how to work 'em just right." It was a declaration, if anything. "When's the last time I worked 'em wrong?"

He couldn't remember. And he had to swallow and suck some air. " ... y-yeah. I mean ... I know. I know that." He trusted her so much. To be intimate with and casual with. To be every part of the spectrum with.

Her paws slipped under his sweatshirt and ran little circles over his belly, a finger slipping to his belly button and giving a single-second wriggle. Before stopping and just holding him. "I think our problem is that ... well, not that it's a problem, but ... " A slight chuckle, opening her eyes and lolling her head around. Before putting her nose back to his neck. " ... my fangs have to be in your neck during intercourse. There's no choice about that. We're much more limited in terms of 'positions' than other furs are. Other species. We have to face each other so I can bite while you ... you know ... so, what happens, is that we're forced to stick to one or two very doable kinds of, uh ... set-ups," she said, "and we get so comfortable with them that maybe we're not too eager to deviate."

"I give you muzzle every day. That's deviating." An honest blush, squirming a bit. His nose flaring. " ... I like it, too."

"I know. You're the biggest muff-mouse the world ever saw ... " Her chitters seemed to vibrate from her throat, in an echo-locating way.

" ... I don't know if I'd go that far." He had to smile.

"You may be polite, gentle, sweet ... but you love pussy. You'd do things for it."

"Not 'it' ... yours."

"Mine," she breathed. "Mm ... all the same. You do go that far." Sultry whispers. "And I've many distinct memories of fluid dribbling all off your whiskers and nose like raindrops, and you looking up at me, all drunk-like, from between my thighs ... mm, I got the proof in my memory."

"Well ... " Okay, so she had him there. He couldn't exactly deny any of that. He could only squirm, giggle-squeaking. " ... heh. Anyway, you act like this is a one-sided thing. You seem to like mouse-hoods well enough ... "

" ... did I say I didn't?"

"No, but ... you act like like I'm more addicted to yours ... your things, then, uh, you are to mine. My, uh ... thing," he said, with non-specific politeness. He didn't want to sound too crude, after all. "How high is the heat on?"

"It's only set to seventy. We can't afford to set it too high ... " Gas prices being as high as they were. They did have a corn stove, which burnt corn, but they hadn't been able to buy any corn yet. When they both got their next paychecks. So, they had to use the furnace, in limited spurts, in the meanwhile. " ... why?" Adelaide asked, a grin dawning on her muzzle. Showing her sharp, crescent-curving fangs. "Is it getting to you?"

He only squeaked, in response. It was so much hotter in this kitchen than it had been. Was it summer or late-autumn outside? He was having a hard time telling, now. But, oh, he knew why he was feeling like this. Truth be told. He wasn't really spacing it that much. He knew. But part of the fun of this foreplay was to try and keep it going as long as possible. To resist a little bit, at first. At least, that's what he did. Being the submissive one. The shy one. The effeminate mouse. He squirmed, and then Adelaide would assertively swoop in (so to speak) and bump it, when she saw fit, to the next level.

"Muzzle's a given, though. We're always going to do muzzle ... just saying: you got ears, and I got breasts, but ... I don't play with your ears enough, and you don't play with my breasts enough." A hopeful grin. "No reason we can't remedy that, right?"

" ... so, this is just, like, some random thing that comes to your mind before supper, and ... this is, like, friendly conversation?" A whiskery, dimple-cheeked smile. The mouse actually had dimples on those honey-tan cheeks. And, oh, it only made the cuteness all the more sugary.

Chitters of mirth. "I'm just saying. I like your ears, is all. That's what I'm ... " A breath. " ... saying." A pause. "You're mated to a bat. That limits the ways you can have sex." Again, bringing that back up.

"I don't care if we have to ... cause of your fangs. It's more than made up for by what your fangs end up doing to me. Honestly, you know I don't care. I only care about you." He said all this with a gentle, vulnerable insistence.

" ... I know, but ... I'll never know what it's like to do ... " She trailed for a minute. " ... well, doggy-style, with you. Or have you breeding me when spooned up behind. We can't ever do that. I just wish we could. I guess that's what I'm getting at: I really wanna know what it feels like ... to have you behind me, or some other ... " A breath. "I can't bite you from those positions. I wanna enjoy you ... breed you, rather," she specified, "from every position. Every angle. I just wonder, you know ... "

"What your bite taketh away, your bite ... giveth," he said, very, very quietly, taking a deep breath after saying it. "For the tenth time: it's more than made up for. I never feel like I'm missing anything. I like comfort. I like ... rooted, familiar things. So, what if, like ... either I top you, or you straddle and hunch over me. I don't care if we only do it two ways. It's not like I go around, thinking, wow, I bet those furs married to non-bats can breed in sixty different positions ... "

She smiled, slowly, gradually, as he rambled on. " ... didn't realize you were so passionate about the subject. You getting defensive?"

"Course not." A stubborn, smiling face. "I'm just ... you already know how I feel. You've been in my head." A breath. "And you're working me up."

"But I like to hear you say it," she whispered, honestly, a paw grazing his cheek. "Not that I'm 'working you up.' Though that's nice to know." A chuckle, and then, "But it's important ... a lot of bats, they get lazy about verbally communicating. They just do it all telepathically. And that's fine. Their relationships aren't any less strong or symbiotic. When you're telepathic, you're going to have a strong bond with your partner, no matter what. So, that's ... that's not what I mean. But most of them are married to other bats, you know? Is the thing. I'm married to you. And ... you're not a bat, not telepathic. Not unless I got my fangs directly in your neck, and we're linked, so ... point is, I never get tired of hearing what you feel, what you think, what you want, whether it's small or big. I love it when you talk to me." A slow, eyes-closed sigh. And, after a few seconds, repeating, "My parents? They go hours without speaking, and it's not cause they're not communicating, it's cause they're saying everything telepathically, but ... even if I could do that with you, I don't want to. I want us to keep talking." A pause, and a slow breath, adding, a little randomly, but also getting back on topic, "I like your ears."

A pause, before saying (somewhat shyly, almost making sound like a question), "I like your breasts."

"Then we're agreed: we pay them more attention. Mind, it's ... easy to say that now, but once the ... "

" ... things get going," he supplied, modestly.

" ... once they get going," she said, nodding, "you sorta end up, uh ... thinking with your mouse-hood. With it, but thinking about muff. And the reverse for me. Or something like that. Hence why it's usually ... you eating me out, and then straight to ... "

" ... well, I don't keep track. Of what and when and how ... "

" ... should we? Isn't that an idea?" A grin. "Keep a notebook, and ... start writing down the time we did it, how we did it ... and after a week, after a month, look for patterns?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, cause it's ... just something that, as the Spirit takes us, we ... that's where we go with it. If we start writing it down ... "

" ... well, you know what my parents did?"

A blush. "Do I want to?"

"It's nothing obscene ... heh, stop it," Adelaide said, hugging him tighter. "No, but every time they bred, they put a dollar in a jar, and ... after a few years, they had enough to take a trip somewhere."

"But they were missionaries in Australia."

"I know. But after we got back from there ... that's what they did. I'm just saying, maybe we should do something like that. It sounds romantic. And you like romance. And we never got to take a honeymoon ... it'd be a better way to save for it, a dollar at a time, then ... I mean, you know. Just an idea ... "

A pause. " ... they told you they did that?"

"I figured it out."

" ... well ... I don't know. Wouldn't that be, like, paying for breeding?" He said it very, very shyly.

Giggle-chitters! "No ... silly, it's mutual. It's a ... "

" ... it does sound romantic, though. I admit." A little sigh. He loved romance. He was such a swoon-ful soul. "But both our families know we don't have any money, and won't anytime soon, so ... say we end up taking a trip in another two years ... how are we gonna say we paid for it? We'll have to leave Akira with my parents. They'll wanna know how we can afford it."

"We'll just tell them we saved for it. It's none of their business how," the bat said, grinning.

"They'll know something's up when my ears blush."

"Mm ... you blush all the time."

"I know." A swallow. "And where would we go? It's ... I don't know anywhere but Indiana. And the Midwest." A pause. "I'm afraid of airplanes."

"Afraid of flying in planes, but you married a bat. With wings. Curiouser and curiouser," she teased. " ... well, we don't have to think of where. Not right now." A breath. "Mm, look what you did, though. Got me wanting to 'do it' ... to the point where I'd honestly just waste our entire supper to get straight to the couch."

Making it his turn to say, wispily, to where his breath could've floated away, " ... stop it."

More giggle-chitters. " ... for now. For now ... mm, I'm a little tired, though," she confessed, breathing deep. "But it doesn't matter. I got some flight to get out of me. And I know you got some pent up ... "

" ... steam?" was the wispy whisper, as he watched the barely-visible vapor rise from the simmering soup. He gave it a few more stirs. And, then, simply reached and turned the burner off, and moved the pan off the burner to cool on its own. It was done. It was definitely done. He poked at the broccoli bits with his spoon-tip. Tender.

"Mm, was gonna say ... frustrations," was Adelaide's murmur. "Let's just enjoy our supper first, though, 'fore we worry 'bout that. Else we'll go off in a ... all distracted. We really should eat. Food. Not each other. Not ... not right away. Oh, gosh," she sighed, feeling very, very alive, alert, sizzling with desire. "Supper ... supper first," she chanted to herself, as if to make herself behave.

"Well, you're not putting flies in my soup. I won't be too distracted to let you do that. I don't think that's funny." His whiskers twitched all over, and his ropy tail snaked about.

"Did I say I was going to?" she went. But her feigned innocence didn't pass as well as the mouse's natural kind.

"I just know what you do ... when we have soup. Some furs crunch up crackers and put them in their soup. You sprinkle flies. That whole old joke about telling the waiter there's a fly in my soup? That's a bat thing."

"No, with bats, the joke is 'waiter, why ISN'T there a fly in my soup'," Adelaide corrected. "It's one of those reversal jokes. Opposite of what you expect. That's why it's funny."

"Well, I don't think jokes are funny, anyway," Field claimed, crossing his arms and being very stubborn, now. He wasn't even bothering to hide it.

A slight chuckle. "You don't, huh?"

"Mm-mm." More head-shaking.

"My, my, what a mouse we have today ... you must be very pent-up, mm? Yes ... I bet you'll behave once you get some ... "

" ... hey," he went, blushing, obscuring whatever word she's said. "You already were talking about that. The steam stuff."

"Frustrations. We were talking about frustrations. And you normally get a lot less stubborn after an orgasm ... I should know."

"Being so blunt tonight," he said of her. "Way more than usual." He swallowed, breathing deep, and ... saying, " ... w-well, so, amorousness and swoonful-ness is, like, frustrations, now, though? You just said?" The airy way he said it, light-voiced, with a questioning tone. Oh, goodness.

"The good kind," the bat breathed, hugging him fully. From behind, still, and swaying slightly, hips banking from left to right and back again. Sway, sway, swaying with her love. "The good kind," she said, again, barely audible now. To the point where Field almost wondered if she'd said it telepathically, right into his head. "Anyway, it's thirty-nine degrees outside, and dropping, and ... it's chilly. Talking about this? Adds some heat."

"I feel like all we've done the past ten minutes is talk about sex," the mouse said. Taking a breath.

"And?" she prodded.

" ... and it's ... it's okay," he whispered, sighing some, "because it's ... "

" ... steeped in love? Laced in romance?"

"Cause I trust you," he said, nodding. "And that ... all that, too."

"Aw ... oh, Field," she breathed, feeling very, very relaxed. "Mm." Her body heat rising, mixing with his own. They were hotter than the soup they were about to eat. " ... supper first," she said again, nodding quietly. Keeping them both on track.

"That reminds me," he went, swaying with her, his long, ropy tail coiling round her waist, and then uncurling, and then wrapping round her own tail (weakly so, as mouse-tails weren't as 'strong' as rat tails, for instance).

" ... reminds you of what?" An eyes half-open sigh, her rudder-tail steering, her keen hearing listening for all the higher pitches inside the drafty house.

" ... I don't know." A pause. "There's a song, the lines, like, 'when your heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes.' You know? And steam and heat and ... just reminded me of that song." His whiskers twitched, just because they always did. Twitch, twitch. His dishy ears swiveling subtly. Tiny squeaks, too, as he sighed.

" ... think I know the one." A comfortable sound, her head resting on his shoulder, chin on his shoulder, and peering at the stove-top. "Think the soup's cool enough for our tongues. I'll get the bread, you pour the soup." A semi-yawn. "And the salad's in the fridge."

" ... I'm still sniffing my soup before I eat it," he declared. "Don't think you seduced me enough to make me forget to do that."

A chitter of mirth, easing her posture, leaning back a bit, arms around his belly for a few seconds more before finally letting go. "So, I'm a seducer, now? You buying that old bat stereotype, about bats being 'vampish' ... vampires? Out to seduce you for your blood and life forces?"

"You're out to seduce me for something."

"I normally get it, don't I? And you give it so willingly, too," she said, with a grab. And, if words could wink, hers would be doing so.

A squeak. "Well, y-yes, but ... but I mean, that's cause ... " A stammer, and a squinty, playful look. "If I'm being wriggly, you're being very, very mischievous."

"I told you, didn't I? We established that. I said you were going to make me mischievous if you didn't watch it."

"No ... "

" ... yes, I said that. I totally did."

"You did, but ... no, you're just being that way cause that's how you are. All flighty and ... and all over. I'm trying to be at least a little bit well-behaved here, and ... "

" ... the mousey modicum of manners?"

"I don't ... okay, just cause you work in the library and know that 'modicum' means, that doesn't mean ... "

" ... you're a writer, sometimes. You know what it means."

"Well, I can't hardly think right now. I bet you're in my head."

"No, you're just all hazy-headed all on your own."

"You're helping it to be like that," he whispered.

"Am I?"

"Adelaide ... " He licked his lips, whiskers a-twitch.

" ... seems someone is getting more and more flustered ... and twitchy." Standing beside him, about to open the oven, she tilted her hips and hip-checked him gently. "So, go ahead, sniff your soup all you want. It's just making you butter yourself up even more for me to eat later." Her insect-catching tongue lolled out of her muzzle. " ... I can't help myself tonight. I really can't. Heh ... "

"I noticed. If my tail was a thermometer, the end would explode," he said, squeakily, stepping out of the way, and grabbing the soup-pan, and taking it over to the kitchen sink. To pour it into some bowls.

At this, the bat chittered hysterically, slumping against the kitchen table. " ... h-heh. You think? Heh, and ... mm, well, what's that make your ears, then? They're all rosy-pink?"

"Solar panels."

"Solar dishes, you mean," she corrected, for him.

" ... you're teasing me up a wall tonight. You so are!" Whiskers twitched, and he bit his lip. "Making me ... "

" ... in need of being unflustered?"

A sigh. "Darling, I'm serious. You're not giving me a second to react before you're throwing a new innuendo at me. It's like bam, bam, bam ... non-stop, tonight ... "

"At least I admitted it, right? And that's how you start: with great rhythm. Gets the blood flowing, the heart going ... "

"Well ..."

" ... so, you want more reaction time? With your scurry, you can't keep up? That can't be true ... you're stalling. Playing demure."

"I'm naturally demure," he said, nose raising up, and eyes closing. Saying it in a wispy, definitive way.

"I thought you were 'serious.' You said, 'darling, I'm serious.' Not 'darling, I'm demure'."

"You're just ... j-just, uh ... wait, uh ... "

"Most of all, you," she said, the sheet with the bread now on the stove-top, cooling. She turned the oven off. " ... most of all, you are, my mouse, a bundle of cute." She gave him a good looking-over, and a good telepathic brush with her 'emotional feelers,' as they were, loving this. She could see his mind whirling. He was so, so flustered. It was almost like a teapot that got hotter and hotter until it started whistling. The image made her laugh out loud again. And she told him, " ... tail a thermometer, muzzle a spout. Tip you over and pour you out."

"That's ... that's silly." A buck-toothed grin.

"It's cute," was her throaty promise. "Like you."

"Well, maybe ... you're cuter than me."

A shake of the head. "I'm beautiful," she said, with a cheeky grin of her own, tit for tat. "You're cute."

"Not handsome?"

"Mm, don't argue with a horny bat, darling. You're not going to win. You're just gonna get pinned to the ... "

" ... well, so I'm ... I'm ... that's not all I am, I hope," he said, being the emotional, vulnerable sort. "Just cute?"

"Of course not." She reached a paw to his chin, and turned him ... and faced him, eye to eye. "You're lots of things to me. You know that," she said, her tone momentarily less 'teasing.' "You're lots of things, but ... it's been a hard week, okay? Like I said, for the both of us. We're home alone. I don't wanna think about how we're struggling financially, or ... you know, how winter's going to be hard, or how Akira's getting older, or how we can't have another baby even though we want one, or ... you know, it's ... just, right now, I just wanna have fun. And banter and sizzle and flirt with you. And be funny and silly. And it just so happens that I know what buttons of yours to push ... to get," she breathed, "the reactions I want. And you're naturally effeminate and submissive, and you like it, even though you make little token protests ... " A warm grin. "When I get assertive with you, it makes you all fluttery and weak, doesn't it?"

" ... maybe."

"Mm." A deep breath. "Anyway, I still think it's funny ... that you're like a teapot when I fluster you. You twitch and shake 'til you whistle and blow steam out your ears."

Field blushed, as he often did, beneath his cheek-fur. And his ears more visibly approaching beet-red. He cleared his throat, having to giggle-squeak and admit, "That ... heh, that is really funny." A bright smile. "I love you," he said, with no hesitation. Just like it was the most natural thing to say in the world.

"I love you, too," she went, smiling, feeling his body heat spike up another notch. As well as her own. "Mm, goodness ... what am I gonna do with you ... " His mousey qualities were nothing new to her, of course. They, at twenty-four years of age, had been married since they'd turned twenty. Four and a half years, now, with a three-and-a-half year old daughter, Akira, the mauve-furred mouse-bat, who was staying with her grandparents tonight (Field's parents, who often doted on her, being that she was their only grandchild). After church tomorrow, they were all going to have lunch at Field's family's house, and they'd get their daughter back then. But, oh, " ... there's something about you that always seems," the bat breathed, "fresh. Not in a cheeky ... not a 'cheeky' fresh, but a refreshing fresh. Like old-time lemonade on a porch fresh. Timeless, pure ... untainted by modern, casual ... mm, things ... mm ... you're such a ... romantic ... "

The mouse's eyes closed, and his head lowered, bowing down a bit, as he felt his wife's maw, her muzzle, her lips. As she came up behind him (just like before, only at the sink this time). Mouthing wetly, sucking, almost, on his nape, wetting the fur there, and not biting or nibbling. Just gentle, easy ... and him saying, as he took all this, " ... I was gonna suggest candles on the table at supper. I just didn't know if ... if canned soup and sliced bread and salad was a candles meal?"

"Any meal's a candlelight meal. We may be poor like church-mouses, but ... we can be as unabashedly romantic as we want. Light some candles." Chitters from her, and all her pink hues seemed ready to glow.

"Okay." A continued, faithful smile, as they started swaying with each other again. "Adelaide," he breathed, after a few seconds. "What, uh ... " A swallow. " ... about the soup? We keep finding ways to not sit down at the table. We're never going to eat at this rate."

"Is it already poured?" she whispered, exhaling against his neck, nose sliding through his head-fur a little.

And he nodded.

"Mm, well ... let's make it quick."

"The, uh ... " His ears grew hotter. " ... the soup? The ... "

" ... supper. Quick supper. The other stuff we're gonna," she whispered, sucking his neck a bit, " ... gonna savor." And she pulled back, smoothing her shirt, clearing her throat. "What do you want to drink?"

And Field, whiskers twitching in a very flustered way, ears visibly pink, capillaries beginning to show round the rims, just quietly replied, "Water. I'll, uh, get the candles."

Their meal wasn't elaborate, or lavish. Just soup, bread, and some salad, tonight. They couldn't afford to eat out, or to splurge on big grocery bills. Both worked five days a week, at least. Sometimes, five and a half. Him at the apple orchard/farm market a mile from home, and her at the library in the nearest town (and, when the market was closed in winter, Field would work part-time at the library with her). They weren't great-paying jobs. But, with neither of them having a college education, they couldn't be choosy. And they didn't complain. Thankfully, Field's parents were glad to babysit Akira when both Field and Adelaide had to be working. And, soon, in another year, Akira would be starting pre-school. It was hard, especially lately, as the economy only got shakier. They couldn't afford to take vacations, or to splurge. Some days, the stress was heavier than others. On nights like tonight, their love and faith acted like bright balms, fighting off any chills of approaching winter and circumstance, and ...

... twenty minutes later, on the couch, the mouse's faded blue jeans, belt unbuckled, were past his knees, well past, and his bare, pert rump curving up into the living room air, five-foot rope of a flesh-tail casting itself about in the dimness. As hips shifted, raised, and then dipped down. His exposed, circumcised mouse-hood, no sheath, dangling very vulnerably and briefly before bending, nestling against Adelaide's warm, thick-furred groin. Fur was usually thicker down there. Oh, it wasn't so chilly there. And his fleshy organ wanted such warmth. Her warmth. Her heat. Oh, it was good.

Semi-stiffly, it grew, as he repeatedly kissed her pink-furred, carnation-colored cheeks, pecking, peppering, and then lazily but lovingly sucking. Just kisses all over like that, roving not very far, necessarily. Only by centimeters. But it was still movement. It was still him trying, so passionately, to kiss as much of her familiar face as he could. With his eyes closed. Oh, the fragmented, swirling moments of romance. When you were beginning to make love, complete sentences became hindrances!

Away with complete sentences!

Even complete thoughts, even.

Even those.

S-squeak ... squeak ...

... breathe.

Yes, y-yes ... fragmented kisses. Became wordless, spaced sucks, her upper lip between both of his, and his modest tongue, mousey tongue. Then her lower lip. He had her lower lip, and just sucked. The incredible wetness, the saliva unashamedly, unabashedly stringing and drooling down their chins, glistening on their whisker-tips. Giving way. Her tongue versatile, insect-catching, slipping past his lips, now, breaking his hold, and, oh, one hoped the wetness would seep into everything, and that the eyes-closed, nose-bumping, whisker-tangling. That it would never end. The taste of her. And the very breath of her.

That bat, for her part, arched her body up at his. Putting some space (of a few inches) between her back and the couch-cushions, for just a moment, for as long as she could hold it, mouthing, lip-locking with him. Licking his teeth and his gums and tongue. The sweetness of it. The sustenance. Breaking, eventually, so they could both breathe. Oh, breathe. Her body still arching up. Few more seconds. " ... mm."

Which was all the time it took for Field's shy, slightly-rough farm-paws to undo the hook of her bra. Her shirt was draped over the back of the couch. Her own jeans on the carpet, almost having been discarded under the coffee table, out of sight. Her panties, though, still round her ankles, and her foot-paws rolling around at the ankles, until ... a p-panting, quick flick of her blunt-clawed, pink-furred toes, and off they went. Silky panties gone. A few inches away. Joining Field's warm, rumpled sweatshirt.

Field's breathing becoming deep but irregular, shaky, desperate, feeling Adelaide's paws stroke down his backside. Bare, rural backside, to the rump, where ... where s-she ... gripped and groped. And squeezed. Making him to close his eyes and arch (again) and stretch his foot-paws and curl his toes. And, like the cherry on top: he squeaked. Whenever his rump-cheeks were squeezed, that's what happened. It was almost involuntary. And, oh, incredibly cute. Mousey bottoms. She loved those.

So, she gripped it more, feeling that rump, and then massaging the tail-base, all around that tail-base, giggle-chittering, also panting. But full of playful mirth, now, working her paws lower, off his rump, down the backs of his legs, and then using her own legs, in a wrap-around kind of way, to slide his jeans down, down, down to his ankles. And then arching her belly and hips up at him, stroking his backside once more, wriggling with him (though, of course, he wriggled better, being that mouses were so associated with that motion) until all clothing was removed, 'til they were bare and 'in the fur' as anything, him on top of her, and beginning to ...

" ... I ... I'm s-so glad we're alone," he panted. "I n-need you ... so badly ... "

" ... t-tell me ... about it," was her lazy, lazy response. They both loved their daughter. And, if they could afford it, they'd have another baby. They absolutely didn't want Akira to grow up as a single child. They wanted a bigger family than that.

That wasn't to say that being a parent was easy, or a piece of cake, or sunshine and lollipops. It had its frustrations, its struggles, its pains. Trying to be sure you raised your child right. To teach them what you knew. Worrying about whether they'd really listen, or if you'd done a good job, or if they would appreciate all you'd sacrificed for them when they got older. Worrying you might fail them in some way. Worrying, constantly, about their health, their future. Wanting to protect them from all of life's pains and mistakes, and knowing you wouldn't be able to.

Knowing, more brightly, that they were your very flesh and blood, a product of your purest love. Your greatest work of art. A new life, hope, vibrancy. Part of yourself left to the world. Oh, you loved them so much, wanted the best for them. And when your child behaved, you felt really good. When they misbehaved, you felt miserable. It took a lot of energy, no doubt. But, to Field and Adelaide, at least, it was worth it. It was so very worth it. No matter what.

But, as Akira got older, mommy and daddy, as it were, had a little less privacy with each passing year. And that was a bit of a downside. That couldn't be denied. The cheeky mouse-bat would simply wake up at night, and would just barge into Field and Adelaide's room saying she was thirsty, or 'dun wanna sleep n'more!' ... which would wake them up. Which was harmless enough, ultimately. It was when Field and Adelaide were breeding and their daughter barged in ... well, that was frustrating. Akira obviously had no idea what they were doing or why, and often didn't see very much. But all the same. It made her parents a little paranoid. Sure, Adelaide could telepathically keep track of where Akira was in the house, but when all her telepathic energy was being spent on Field ...

... the problem was that they couldn't just stop doing it. Just quickly stop. Cause of Adelaide and her fangs having to be inches in Field's neck. That made it very hard to react to sudden interruptions. And the reason they didn't lock the door was that, lately, they'd just taken to sleeping after sex, and they didn't leave the bed, so ... they didn't want their bedroom door locked if something bad happened in the middle of the night (like a storm or fire or any of that), or Akira really needed them. Sometimes, she had nightmares and came to them crying, so ... and they would soothe her.

But, sometimes, Akira just came to them because she was being full of stubbornness. Adelaide would claim she got that from Field. And Field would claim that it wasn't stubbornness that Akira had, it was toothy-ness, and she most certainly got toothy-ness from Adelaide. But, regardless, it wasn't just at night. It was all times of the day. It was hard to find total time and privacy to make love when you had a child who could walk and talk all about the house. But the mouse and bat were creative, passionate, and they certainly found their ways.

Tonight, though, they had total privacy. Total ...

... privacy. All alone, and ...

... no ... interruptions ... at all. Oh ...

... wriggle down, down, just a bit. Just a little bit, mouthing past her chin, her neck, her collarbones. Her soft, pink, pink pelt, like cotton candy, seemingly melting as he wetted it. He wanted to run his fingers through that fur, his entire body, everything. He wanted to feel every part of her. He wanted her in the worst, most-consuming way, and his lips found their way, finally, to the mounds that were her breasts, furry hills, with nipples as peaks, and suck, suck one breast, and use a paw to fondle the other one. Taste one. Hold the other. And then switch, lips slipping over a nipple, finally, and suckling in a familiar way. And delighting as it hardened against his tongue.

The bat sighed, lazily sinking into the couch cushions. Both her paws tentatively went to the back of her husband's head. As if she were cradling him. As if ... ' ... I miss breast-feeding you,' she said, telepathically, mentally. The words going directly into the mouse's mind. No sounds. Just thought-spoken. Few years ago, after she'd given birth to Akira, while breast-feeding her, she'd taken to letting Field have a bit of milk, sometimes, when they made love. It'd turned, after a while, into a daily thing. He'd go for her breasts. She'd clutch his head, lovingly, and close her eyes, and ... just melt. She'd nursed him for close to a year. But then she'd dried up, so ... but the fact remained: whenever he put his muzzle, his maw, that tongue. Whenever he put his mouth on her breasts, the memories of that became so fierce. It made her eyes water. Goodness, the intimacy. Raw. Real. Reliable.

And he remembered how her milk tasted. He remembered. A big suckle, and his tongue dancing on the top of her nipple, and lips slipping off, he whispered aloud to her, " ... you're beautiful. J-just ... breasts ... on down, on up, all of it. Your tail. Your ears ... your eyes. Your mind and your heart most of all." He met her eyes, and though he was normally so shy and bashful (even during intimacy), he kept the gaze. Kept it locked. The taste of her nipple, the flesh of it, the scent of her. He just loved her so much.

And her eyes glistened. A paw rubbing through his head-fur. " ... I don't know what I'd do without you." A small shake of the head. "I really don't."

" ... I need you, too."

"I think our need is equal. We're symbiotic. We have a link, and ... a love. And that's ... we're like this," she said, a paw slipping between his. Her fingers, his fingers. Paws clasped. And squeezing. "We're closer."

"Closest," he whispered, upping the ante.

A giggle-chitter, and a swallow. "Mm-hmm." A nod, her paws, without permission, and without announcement, going to his ears. The backs of his ears, her fingers splaying, and covering most of his lobes. The backs of his lobes, massaging, caressing.

A squeaky sigh, eyes closing, nosing, sniffing at her breasts some more, and beginning to mouth them all over again.

While she, toes reaching, knees bending and then straightening, ran her fingers round the rims of those ears of his, making them hot, making them blood, blood hot, to throb, to be sensitive to every little sound, every rustle of fur against fur, fur against fabric, inhale, exhale, pant, squeak, chitter. Heartbeat. He could hear heartbeats faintly in his ears. And his cheeks ... s-so hot, he began to struggle for breath, as ...

" ... relax," was the command. "Scoot up ... up a bit?"

Scoot ...

" ... come on," she urged.

... scoot. Squirming, tail-wavering, sighing heavily, vulnerably, to get his ears within reach of her muzzle. And, oh, she wasted no time, and that tongue of hers. That tongue that had just been in his mouth. That tongue that had just spoken such romantic confessions. It lapped and swirled round his inner ear, and it was so hot, his flesh, that you could almost imagine it sizzling, as her tongue just swirled, whirled, wheeled around, in lip-parting, saliva-coating ways. She wasn't being subtle about this. But she wasn't being manic, either. She knew the right amount of pressure to give him. She knew how to ... give ... a mouse ear-sex ...

" ... u-uh." A pant, melting against her, hugging her from atop. " ... A-Adelaide ... "

Hugging him from below, she felt him arch. And kept him down. Held him down, her tongue-tip peeking into his ear-hole. And, in doing so, bending and parting the clear, short, invisible hairs that lined his deep inner ear. Those ear-hairs that helped in catching sounds. They were stiff and sensitive, and her tongue just bent them all over and coated them in wet saliva. And the resulting sensations sent a tingling down through those hairs, into the ear-flesh, into the root of his ear, and it was like a chain reaction, with one of her paws fiddling with his other ear, fingers dragging, circling, surrounding.

Squeaks, squeaks, and ...

... slips of her tongue, more and more, panting into his ear, until she simply couldn't hold back, and just blew a deep, hot breath. A breath. Gently, so gently, into his ear. You never, ever wanted to blow hard into an ear. It had to be a feather-light breath, and it had to be far enough away from the ear-hole to wash over the whole 'inside dish,' but ... close enough to ... get that inner circle, and ...

" ... uh! A-ah, A-ad ... " Twitches, many twitches, ears tingling. They tingled. Heatedly. A whole lot. Oh. Very. Much. And that heat, it broke. It left the ears and broke, flooding down into his forehead, cheeks, neck, shoulders, chest. The tingling scurrying to his furthest nerve, and, yes, that was an ear-gasm. Hard to explain, and ... but ... gosh. It felt so ... so ... " ... oh," he whimpered, wanting to curl up, to shiver, and shiver, shiver.

" ... good?" she whispered, into an ear.

A weak nod. You'd hardly know he was nodding. Drooling, yes. That much was audible, as some of his saliva collected on her fur, lips parted, eyes half-open. " ... it ... tingles. A lot."

A smile, stroking his upper back, now. " ... mm. I know. We gotta tingle more than your ears, though." A breath, leaning her head fully back, wriggling her tongue around, keeping it loose. "You need a break 'fore we ... "

" ... no," he breathed, hazily, dizzily. " ... n-no, I can ... I wanna." He felt like he was wading through pleasure-waters. It was like moving slowly, moving in such a way, but knowing that if you toppled over? You'd float.

" ... mm-h ... m'kay," she went. And her legs, with a close, bumping motion, spreading and lifting, her short, rudder-like tail, half-pinned beneath her, jutting out at a sharp angle. Unable to lift. But it twitched, indicating that, if it could, it would.

A lifted tail was a green flag, a final, unspoken go-ahead. Not that Field needed the permission, not now, no, or ever. So worked up, so very worked up. But he was a polite, manner-minded thing, not to mention somewhat shy. He valued body language and little, romantic gestures, and she knew it. And maybe, another time, if they were less heady, they'd take it even slower. He'd certainly give her thorough muzzle. He'd certainly go down on her. He did so almost daily. But, right now, they just went with the flow. Didn't plan it. Just went where things went, and things were going, finally, ultimately, wonderfully, toward sweet, sweet intercourse, and, oh, not gonna get in the way of that, if that's ... that's what's ... gonna ... need to ...

... wriggle, wriggle. The mouse, short of breath, big, dishy ears like heated umbrellas above his head, swiveling just over Adelaide's smaller, more swept-back ears, worked his hips back, a little bit up, a little bit ... trying to line his stiffening penis up with ... t-trying, easing forward, and ... h-hump ... squeak. Deep blush and deep sigh, having angled just a centimeter off, his blunt, plum-colored head, flush with blood, slip-sliding up, up, and vertical. Up the moist crease of her vulva. Instead of horizontal and into her vagina. Another squeak, twitching hotly, getting ...

" ... c-calm down," was the whispered, tender breath, in the near dark, in the open room. There were windows in the wall there. The front door, too. If anyone came to the door, they'd see the silhouettes. But they weren't expecting company. And, anyway, they were too far gone to care. From beneath him, as Adelaide hugged her husband. Winged arms wrapping round his backside like encompassing blankets, as she whispered, again, "Just calm down ... meet me halfway here. You'll get in. You're just excited. You gotta ... gotta slow down, okay?"

A cheek-flushed, ear-hot nod, swallowing. Throat a bit dry. "I ... I love you," he stammered.

"I love you ... t-too, alright? You're twitching too much." She smiled and rubbed his back, panting, chittering. Her body so warm and willing. "Just relax ... easy, easy," she breathed. Sometimes, this happened. Mouses had so much energy, so much anxiety and scurry to them. That, in the heat of the moment, they often overdid it. Often overshot their mark, as it were, or couldn't stay still long enough to ... " ... that's it," she whispered. "Just stay still, take a few breaths. Easy ... " She was using her telepathy to slow his pace. Naked beneath him, her sex pouting, filled with blood. Definitely wetter than a few minutes ago. Her hips, her body, her soft, furry pelt ...

... pressing toward his, lining perfectly up. And he felt the gentle positioning, and a few more hip-wriggles and bumps, daintier, calmer, and dipping forward, and, oh, slipping in. So easily, this time, and so nicely, so fully and snug, that he whimper-squeaked from the sheer sensuousness of the feeling. The jungle-moist warmth of her muscle, the pinkness that wrapped round his sensitive flesh like a sheath, a scabbard for a sword, strings to the violin's bow. A perfect fit for his modest five inches. It was a kind of wonderful. A kind of meaningful. It was pleasure. He almost melted right there. He thought he was really going to.

Her head rolled aside, eyes hooding, at the feeling of being filled, of his member ridding her of any void, of any ache. And he may have been a modest mouse in length, but he was nicely thick. Yeah, she ... f-felt ... full, walls beginning to be brushed, stimulated, prodded, played. "Mm ... " Her winged hug tightened, and, oh, she felt the instinct kick in. The biting instinct. Triggered as soon as male pre (Field was leaking) mixed with her vaginal fluid. It created some kind of spark, some kind of signal, which raced to her brain. She didn't know how it worked. Bats had unique sexual make-ups. Each species had a unique talent and response (cuteness, virility, barbs, knots, pheromones, teeth for nibbling, tails for touching, and the list went on), but bats were on another level. Her fangs began to throb, throb. She felt them throbbing, and then a milky fluid began to leak from the tips, like how venom would. Only, this wasn't venom. No, this was a very pleasant mating milk. Which she n-needed ... to ... put in her m-mate ...

... a squeak from Field, who remained, for the moment, at a topping hilt, breathing audibly but gently. Tilting his head as he felt his neck being licked at. The bat lapping at his fur, matting a spot for biting. An enzyme in her tongue suddenly active, suddenly numbing. So that he'd feel no pain. So no mark would be left. She knew how to bite. Whether it was by instinct or intellect, she knew how to use her fangs. Yes, she knew how to ...

" ... mm, mm-h ... " A grunt-sound from her, almost. Kind of like a grunt. Of relief. As her sharp, pearly-white fangs, slightly-curved, pin-pointed through the mouse's pelt and flesh, and pierced his neck in just the right spot. So as to hit nothing but muscle. Embedding in muscle, and the mating milk flowed in a constant drip, now, entering his bloodstream. It only took eight or ten seconds for the blood to do a full circle of his body. To get pumped through his heart and brain and ...

... the union was complete.

Like an incandescent light blinking on.

They were joined. At the hip, at the head, at the heart. Her thoughts and his thoughts merging, becoming aware to each other. Thoughts, memories. So many memories shared without a spoken word. Simply memorized (for the moment; when the link was broken, the information overload was so great that not all of it could be remembered in detail), the emotions, the feelings. The goodness of those things, and the desire, and always lastly: the physical sensations. Once the mental and emotional joining was complete, the physical joining came to the fore, overshadowing all of it, almost, in the sense that she could feel, literally feel what his penis felt like right now for him, and he, in turn, felt the tingling of her clitoris as if it were part of his own body. Each other's pleasures. Along with their own. Dual sensations.

The first time they'd done this, Field had, afterward, started crying from being so bewildered and confused. But he'd soon gotten used to it. It took patience, practice, but once both partners were comfortable with the idea of being fused together in such an intimate, fierce, undisclosed way, it ceased to be overwhelming. And became, instead, almost revelatory, a celebration of love, a firework of idea and intent. It was a true brushing of souls. It was symbiotic intimacy. Like a drug. It addicted you to your partner, and made you understand them more, crave them more, love them more. No secrets able to be held and no holds barred. It was sex taken to its limit.

So much so that bats had the lowest divorce rates of any furry species. It made it incredibly hard for bats to have casual sex. It wasn't like rabbits, who could hop around, breeding for freewheeling fun and lust. With crazy stamina to boot. With bats, the telepathic factor created a bond. Whether you liked it or not. Whether you wanted it or not. It was simply the consequence. And that bond, once created, had to be indulged, else you'd enter into a painful (emotionally, anyway) withdrawal. For this bat and her mouse, though, their love was a much-nurtured, much-matured thing, already having produced one child. Theirs was a true rural, faithful romance. They were like magnets, like planets in each other's gravitational pull.

All things poetic.

Is what they were to each other. Is what this (sweet union!) was.

However the biology worked, and whatever advantages it gave bats as a species (bats had eleven-month gestations for babies, and reproduced at a slower rate, so it was more imperative that they keep mates once they find them, to maintain their population) ... Field's mousey sexuality was much simpler. Not just cause he was male, but mouses were modest, religious. They had pretty traditional views of sexuality. Had average stamina. Average endowment. But they were so very emotional, and so very earnest, that when they made love? They threw themselves into it, so thorough, so eager to please, so tender. Sex with a mouse was a sex laced in meaning. You always came out of it feeling special. And, oh, they had their cuteness. Couldn't forget that.

Whatever the case, it was, in the end, more spiritual than anything. And for Field and Adelaide, in their Christian faith, this was truly a romantic tidal wave, sweeping them away every time, leaving them drenched in each other ...

... just, as now, Field's so-hard mouse-hood was drenched, squelching and slicking its way in and out of his wife's waiting, willing vagina, which was so incredibly steamy that his flesh, upon pulling out of her (only halfway, never all the way out), was glistening, marinated in her fluid. " ... uh ... u-uh," were his squeaks, humping briefly, closely, his tufted, furry sac swelling up and tightening, slapping simply against her spread vulva. Trying to remember her clitoris, knowing it was important to her, and angling his hips, pressing them to hers. In such a way. To grind, to rub, to make sure his groin-fur rubbed and dragged right over her erect, little nub, his weight coming down on it, bump, b-bump ... h-hump ...

" ... mm, m-hmm."

" ... uh," he whined, because ... he felt what she felt (and cause he was a 'squeaker' during love-making; rodents tended to be). And the more he did it to her, oh, the more he got from it. Pleasuring her, mutually. She, too, pleasuring him. Give and take. A friction. A motion, together, joined, pushing and pulling, working for the same goal, pleasuring each other first, and in turn, getting pleasure themselves. It was a whirlwind of a thing to register. So, they tried not to think about it too much. They just did it. Just did it. Oh, it f-felt ... good ...

" ... m-mf, mm," were her rising, throaty sounds, her fangs still in his neck. She couldn't pull out until they'd both climaxed. It was like the conductor to their union. The circuit through which everything looped and ran. If she pulled out, the link would sever, and if it was severed before climax? Then she was left with nausea, headaches. All that. She had to see it through. Biology's way of guaranteeing seed was exchanged before it ended, that the reward was given and received. There was no 'pulling out' with bats. Which was why she was on a birth control pill. They couldn't afford another baby right now. They really couldn't.

But it didn't matter. The mouse wanted to sow her womb, sow his seeds in her, and ... a-and closer, closer, getting closer to it, with a squeaky, naked writhing, hips dancing into each other, desire flowering fully, bearing, finally, the fruit, the gift of this, as into orgasm the mouse embarked, going all twitchy and weak, growing all desperate and meek, hugging the bat in a submissive, needy, whimper-squeaking kind of way, as his mouse-hood tingled, tingled so ... s-so good, and then spurted, spurt after spurt, jerk. Jerking, steamy-white mouse semen pelting her cervix, coating the walls of her sex, and all he could do, during this, was gasp and pant and ... " ... a-ah, ah! Ah ... ah-hn, n-nuh ... oh ... " Squeaky, whisker-twitching, hot-eared moans. His tail flailing before falling limp, like a downed electrical wire. "Oh ... " His paws shook, cheeks flushed. And he swallowed, still in the tapering seconds of his own climax ...

... as she, in response to his, launched into her own, helplessly, inevitably, her gorged, slick walls rippling, fluttering, in outright spasms. Shocks and aftershocks of pleasure flung to her extremities, warming her belly, further hardening her already-hard nipples. A weak chittering, constant ... c-chittering, hugging him in the biggest, wing-wrapped way ever, as if melting, as if, oh, what he'd driven her to! Little dribbles of wetness squirting out of her sex, soaking the mouse's sac-fur. Her toes curled, and her nose flared, and, oh, it kept going, like a good earthquake, shaking her all over, and then tapering off. Her fangs remaining embedded in his neck for a few moments before she slowly, dreamily drew them out, panting hard and ... and managing, " ... o-oh ... oh, gosh. Mm." A weak nod, a smile beginning to plaster itself on her muzzle. That smile turning into an afterglow-drugged giddiness. Leading to giggle-chitters. But, after a bit, she reigned those in, and whispered, for the third time this evening, a more serious, "I love you."

" ... I love you, too," was the mouse's vulnerable, effeminate response, so honest, so genuine, so quiet. And yet so loud with emotion. Also drugged with afterglow. Nuzzling her with his nose, and giving her sweet, little pepper-kisses. Pecking at her cheek, and then going forehead to forehead, easing his hips back. He was already shrinking, and ... his mouse-hood wetly flopped out, leaving the excess semen to drip from her like molasses. " ... gonna ... mess up the couch again," was his shy, little mumble.

" ... we always clean it up. No one will notice," was her smiling response. "You're a very tidy mouse."

A blush, and a continued, sighing hug, nuzzling her. He sighed so heavenly.

She cuddled back at him, using her winged hug to roll him off her, from atop of her to beside her, side by side, nose to nose, and she stroked his trim side, feeling his breath. The rising and falling of his body, his pulse. " ... it's dark out, you know," she whispered.

A quiet nod. "Mm, yeah. Dark and cold, and we're ... all safe," he whispered, "together."

"Like to take a bath?" Her lips grazed his.

A smiling agreement. "Yeah. That'd be nice ... "

"Mm, come on," she said, slipping off the couch, extending an arm, a paw.

And he took it.

And she helped him to his foot-paws, hugging him close as he swayed from dizziness, a lot of blood still in his ears. A lot of thoughts still in his head. A lot of emotions swimming in his heart. He hardly noticed it was a cold night at all. Knees wobbled, and then, finally he regained his balance.

" ... so cute," she commented.

He nuzzled her more. And it felt like they'd just warmed the air in this dear, little house to a fire-crackling degree. And, oh, he had to say, just had to tell her, " ... I think I did get smoke in my eyes. I think ... my heart did catch fire."

"Then let us go," she said, with a sultry, dominant sweetness that made him swoon, "go stir our embers a little. In the tub ... " Off she padded, in the dark, holding his paw and tugging him behind her, as he squeakily, happily followed, but bumping into the back of her, the tail of her, as they moved into the kitchen. "I almost forgot," she said, half turning around, and ...

... he watched, wide-eyed, whisker-twitching, and ultimately blushing as she picked up a crumpled dollar bill off the top of the Hoosier cabinet, and opened the nearest jar she could find. And dropped it in. And, then ... after a purposeful pause, she fished for a second crumpled dollar. Dropped it in, too. With a very obvious grin. Pointing a paw at him, at his muzzle, declaratively, and then pointing between her legs. And a wink, turning, her hanging breasts jiggling, swaying her naked rump and tail as she slipped into the bathroom. "Now, we can get in the tub."