Wrapped In a Bow
Forgetting, for the moment, that it was pitch-black and frightfully cold outside, three degrees above zero (without the wind chill) and icily approaching midnight, with the naked trees starkly swaying. Paying it no heed. The bashful mouse, safe indoors, gave a dainty, muffled squeak. Aria's snow-white paws, fingers splayed, pad-flat on his bare, earthy-furred chest, right in the middle of the matted fur, right above his heart (oh, how it beat). Pushing. Nudging him backwards, 'til an 'oomf,' 'til he was pinned, in a snug, wide-eyed and wriggling way, to the cozy bathroom wall. Whisker-twitching and all. He couldn't get away. Even if he wanted to (and, Lord, he really didn't).
It wasn't quite so frigid in here, with the heated air and the shower already on. And with the energy their bodies were continuously giving off. Billowing steam, everything, all of that. More and more, about their very ears. Making vision a hazy affair. Dreamy sights. Heavier sighs. The mirror above the sink was helplessly fogged up. Their heads felt about the same. It was definitely warmer. Frostbite and winter storm and wind chill warnings had no place in here. The only 'nipping' to be done was the husband and wife kind, the back and forth, this for that, very-much-in-love kind. Not the bitter-y, blizzard-y, weathered variety.
Being snowed in didn't have to be a bad thing.
They had their love to keep them warm.
Ross, bless him, was dressed in nothing but a simple, pleasing bow, which wasn't fake, wasn't plastic. Real red ribbon, tied with symmetric passion and precision (by the logical snow rabbit, of course) toward the tip of his long, fleshy-pink tail. As if he were a last-minute present, unwrapped in such an excited frenzy as to leave just a tiny bit of the package covered. Or maybe it was just there cause Aria thought it made him look so pretty. Her notably effeminate but satisfyingly male mouse. So gentle and sweet. Now and then, he needed a bow on that tail. Just did, dang it. With the way he gave himself to her, daily. His body. His heart. The selfless gift of his love. Yes, he looked good in a bow. It accentuated the wispy parts of him. It was like the cherry on top of his already-delicious sundae of mousey cuteness.
She, reveling in this, tilted her prim muzzle upward, as her body, built for loping, built for lust, built for the Arctic snow and dust, leaned against him, with him, arching into him. Her bare breasts, like those Alaskan mountains. Except with much nicer peaks. Except more fertile. Hanging loosely, squishing against his rising, falling chest, fur meshing with fur, him and her, as arms went round his back and bare bellies bumped and met. Clothes were in the living room. Maybe on the couch, or under the coffee table. Somewhere. It wasn't quite time for bed. In the midst of a coming blizzard? Half an hour 'til midnight? No, 'bedtime' was on temporary delay. One-hour delay. Now was a time for friction. There was, in their very souls, a mandate for heat. The kind of warmth that only passion could stir. That only romance could spawn and raise. The kind that consumed but didn't burn.
A good and thorough winter wash, both in water and in want.
To melt the sleeping world away.
The meadow mouse knew a good deal about melting. It was kind of like swooning. Kind of. Only slower. It was something that hopeless romantics did. That mouses (dear things) did. Like himself. Something that svelte, Northern-minded snow rabbits could never fully do. Frozen through. Restrained as they were, even while feral deep down. He could thaw his dichotomy of a wife. Never melt her. But he didn't need to. He loved her just as she was. They were both outsiders in their own ways. Both from outside the city gates. Him from a farm. Her from the tundra. Brought together (in another story all its own), intent on forever. And thawing, he'd found, was more than enough. Oh, that silent, subsequent battle, hot and cold, fire and ice.
Was ever a stirring, intimate delight.
Such good friction.
Produced such steam.
So it was that, with her muzzle lifted, her neck exposed, the mouse took to nibbling there. For an appetizing start. You had to begin somewhere. Gently, with his big rodent buckteeth. Little gnaws. More nibbles, by the hungry, eyes-closed minute, his nose ever-sniffing and his whiskers twitching against her chin. As those nibbles turned to peppered kisses, and those kisses turned to simple, wet mouthing motions, tongue-shy commotions, around, about, up and then down. 'Til he was breathing on her shoulder, and whispering something against her soft, soft pelt. So pure in its whiteness. And highlighted with those charcoal fringes on her ears and paws. Her tall antennae-ears, yes. Soot-black tips. Waggled atop her head.
While his own ears, big and dishy, more plainly pink. Vulnerably swiveled. Catching every breath and rustle of fur.
Hers, then, twiddled. Just for extra good measure. With their own keen hearing. Before she pristinely whispered back. Mumbling less than him. Not the modesty. Loaded up with sultriness. But even without knowing what either had entirely said, word for word, her body language was clear in response to his emotional admissions: follow my lead, darling.
The mouse nodded, whiskers brushing her cheek. Yes, indeed. A kiss to her jaw-line, matting more face-fur. He felt now, as before, that he'd do anything for her. Some called that obsession. He called it commitment. And it throbbed through his very being, like a cause, a movement. Of paws, not just notions. Tracing his fingers, in soft, sweeping motions, down her lovely back, the outline of her spine, and up again, to her shoulder blades. All through the softest fur he'd ever known. Maybe the sheer whiteness made it softer. Maybe she was just that naturally elegant (she was a knock-out in a dress). For someone bred in such cold, harsh confines, she was, to the touch, and to his lips, so very vibrantly warm and inviting.
Aria, ice-blue eyes half-open, hooded but crystalline in the hazy bathroom light, just held to him. Her artistic, thoughtful sweetie. Him of the quaint Hoosier qualities. A tight, secure hold, to make sure this didn't float away from her. This moment. These touches. The passion that simmered in promising bunches. All these things so vulnerably expressed. She held her husband tight to her supple, rabbit-y breasts, giving a single lap along his cheek. Close to where those whiskers were. The ones that went and went. And went some more, just like his tail snaked and snaked, and just like all of him moved. Full of mousey motions, always. The energy of wide-eyed rodents, the sheer, sustainable scurry. It made a nice complement, she thought, to the presumptive presence of her refined but cheeky hop.
Not able to stay away from the honey-sweetness any longer, the lure of her lips, the mouse, muzzle a-tilt, paws to her curved, feminine hips, dipped his head forward and drew from the snow rabbit a wet, meshing kiss. The best kind, by far. The wet ones. Where the saliva and anticipation, and the hungry suction of increasing desire made for smack-smack sounds. For fuller taste. Lingering, even with eyes shut. You could only kiss this deeply with your eyes screwed shut.
Only.
Kiss.
Just do that. Maybe for a minute, maybe more. Again and again, muzzles tilting in opposite ways, tit-for-tat, lips slipping and sliding in such a manner that her lower lip ended up between both of his. And he suckled, softly, 'til her maw opened. 'Til she was sucking air, a deep, audible breath. And his lips let hers loose, and opened, too, mouthing, now. Just mouthing, damply, not quite kissing and not quite sucking. Just getting muzzle-fuls of her, as much as possible, before falling back to chin and lip-nibbling, and yes, again, the outright kissing. Always what you came back to. Always what you wanted the most (well, at least for the time being).
She was the apple from the tree.
The Eve of all things bobtailed.
He couldn't resist.
Aria, eyes still closed, and heart beginning to hammer, leaned her head back. As Ross pressed forward, dipping her. His paws on the small of her back. Holding her, actually leading her away from the wall. Hoppity legs and all. She had no choice but to shuffle her big, bare, blunt-clawed foot-paws. Against the tiles of the bathroom floor. Shuffle-shuffle, shuff, shuff. Until they left the tiles and tangled up with a laid-out towel (that they always stepped on when they got out of the shower, to keep the floor dry). One foot-paw lifted, to untangle. Lowering, trying to move the big towel back into place. And still, through all of this, the fevered, rising ideal. Of the kiss.
He kept doing it, kept himself lips-to-lips with her, as if there was something he'd yet to taste, something he'd fearfully missed. Some morsel he'd yet to consume. Just a few more, was all. He needed a few more. And she wasn't resisting. Not at all. He was supposed to be following her lead. And maybe, somehow, he still was. She was giving him what he wanted. She was dizzying him and tipsy-ing him up with the kisses, these kisses, more kisses. Already hot-eared and hazy-headed (more so than before, even). About to be putty in her paws. No, he might've been the one that led them away from the wall and to the threshold of the shower itself. But the snow rabbit was still very much in control.
And proved it by lazy-ing her paws, the hug loosening and losing cohesion, right down his trim, rural backside. Stroking her farm-boy of a rodent. Her 'in the fur,' pillow-sharing confidante. Down to that pert rump of his, fingers skirting barely out of the wayward path of that extra-long spaghetti-noodle tail. Which wavered about. Delicate, just like his ears. Just flesh. But on that rump, all fur, all short and earthy fur, and that's where her paws rested. One on each cheek. Better to squeeze, squeeze. Squeeze. Better to elicit ...
... airy.
Involuntary.
Squeaks.
Muzzle lifting, deep-blue eyes watering shut, he raised helplessly, breathlessly, up to the very tips of his foot-paws. His toes. And wobbled and leaned and clutched his snow rabbit tight. His glowing white beacon of light, his snow angel on this bleak and blasting winter night. It was the same reaction every time that 'behind' of his was so thoroughly groped. That helplessness. That latching. That raising. Just a cute quirk he had. And he couldn't get off those toes and back down to his foot-paw pads, no. Until she decided to let go. And when she finally did? He was still in a shaky state. Passion past the point of being able to abate. They were on a collision course.
Full.
Furry.
Fusion.
It was going to happen. No element on earth could stop it.
No truer way of needful, natural expression. Words, so necessary, could be said, spelled out, and even implied. And so often were. Whispered to rich, satisfying effect. Words clothed and civilized. Allowed one to be upright. But, in the end, in the middle of the night, when all was said and done, the echoes of actions always rang loudest. Lingered longer. The physical pantomime. It was age-older than words. Older than time, almost. Kisses and hugs and unabashed love-making? Sex? The original mutual act. The first ever dance. Before societies and written history and everything invented, there was that: male and femme fur, together. Bump and grind, hearts tethered. Putting words over this? Such knowing bliss? Was like wishing for the moon when you already had the stars. Don't let's reach for too much all at once.
Take it one heavenly body at a time.
Taking him, with a deft, directional turn, paws to his middle-back, to the brink of the shower. The very edge of the off-white tub. Making sure he didn't fall backward and tumble into it. But making sure, still, that the backs of his legs were bumping there. So he'd know to lift them, and ...
" ... the bow," he whispered, shyly. Bringing his long, ropy tail of bare, thin flesh. Forward. That real-ribbon bow, paw-tied, still there. A few inches from the tip. So very red. A Merry Christmas red.
"Keep it on," she replied, with equal hush. Adoringly adamant.
A nod, tail wavering aside and behind, one leg and then the other making a glad, twitchy retreat into the jet-streaming water, the shower-head just above his ears. And she watched, with one of those trademark 'eye-smiles,' ice-blue eyes sparkling in that restrained, mirthful way, as the mouse shivered in slightly-surprised shock. At the hot water raining onto those erogenous, blood-gorged ears, yes. Capillary-showing ears. As was bound to happen. He had to tilt his head away. Out of the stream. And had to give her a flustered, desperate look. As if to communicate how ripe he was. If their love was a fruit. He was starving. Ready for picking and eating.
And she held him to that. Held him true, gingerly stepping into the tub with him, into the path of the water. Feeling it immediately soak into her fur, wetting it, matting it, bogging it down. She felt a few pounds heavier, almost immediately. As all her fur, all the dry parts to her, went to a sopping state. And a paw briefly, almost errantly on the curtain. She tugged it across the rod and drew it shut. Keeping the water inside the tub, and giving them even more privacy (though they did not need it). And then, finally, her paws to her husband's shoulders. She swallowed. And panted. A soft mew or two, ears waggling like scissor-blades opening and closing and bobtail like a damp piece of cotton-fluff, even as it flicked. Droplets everywhere. Ever-moistening air. She pushed down on those bare shoulders of his. Pushed. With enough force to make it a silent command.
Down, boy.
Be a good mouse.
And he didn't even need to nod. Just obeyed, more than willing. More than knowing. Knees bending. Body sinking. To the floor of the tub, on his shins, resting that long-tailed, mousey bottom on the heels of his foot-paws. While he fondled her rabbit rump. Wet as it was, fingers parting through that water-logged, clumped-together fur. It didn't matter. There was still, even when soaked through, a softness to her. Still an elegance. She could be drenched to the bone, or have a pelt full of dust, wet or dry, windswept or wilted by the sun and sky. She was beautiful in any state of being, in any element. And he told her so. Gazing at her belly button, and running his nose along her waist, he said so, again and again, getting quieter each time. Getting closer to her thighs.
The rabbit didn't need to lean, for this, against the shower wall. Not necessarily. She had strong legs. Built for loping, hoping. And kicking. She could handle what was about to happen. Though maybe she'd have to hold to his shoulders a bit. Maybe she'd have to hunch over. Maybe she'd have to ...
... poke his sniffy nose, prodding, trying to part those thighs without using his fingers or paws. Without asking. She hadn't needed to ask to get him to his knees. He shouldn't need to ask, in turn, to get those legs open. All these things simply sparkled with playful understanding. They weren't bats, no. Not telepathic. Just that familiar with each other. Just as it goes, pushing with his nose on one, and then the other thigh, smiling shyly, wondering when she'd oblige. Come on, darling, come on. I can only take so much teasing before I fluster myself silly.
And she soon did. She was. Yielding. She loved to fluster him, true. Gave her an excuse to 'un-fluster' him. After all. But she didn't want to induce a 'fluster flummox.' Wouldn't want that, now, would we? So late at night? On the coldest, darkest night of the year? Shifting her stance, bare breasts jiggling a bit loosely, knees slightly bent, her arms reaching out. She put her own paws on his shoulders. And gripped them. So, no, she didn't need the wall for support. But she needed him. She always needed him. No shame in that. In holding on, lowering her head, panting in such a way that water-droplets flew off her lips and trickled off her whisker-tips.
Ross's eyes were only half-open, now, because of the haze he was in. Because of the water running down his own muzzle and face. But he saw enough. The way her fur got plusher around her groin, thicker, more tufted than it was on the rest of her, and how, between those gently-parted legs, that island of pink. That flowery oasis of petal-flesh. Her vulva had a velvety, rosy quality to it. That kind of delicacy. The way those folds loosely came together. The invitation to part them and get to the nectar within? Was too much for a sane fur to ignore or deny. Was too much for words to do justice. It was just an instinct. A desire. A knowing.
Just sighing, now, muzzle lifting, lips parting. The snow rabbit licked her lips and gave a single sniff. Her charcoal-black nose contrasting to the white of her face. Feeling him start. Feeling his tongue going first, going forth. Tentative little swipes. Just to get some saliva on there. Just to get the temperature and taste. That was always how he started. Shyly. He may have been a deep, religious romantic, but he was a modest thing. Much more so than her. Formerly an open-breeder, the snow rabbit was, well, rabbit-y. Maybe more lusty than him. Maybe, certainly, no doubt about that. But they tempered each other. In that very way. He tamed her lust with love, and she spiked his love with lust. And the two forces, together, became an incredible, inseparable fuel. Which kept their fire burning brightly.
The meadow mouse's tongue slipped, broadly, between her labia, and licked up, up. 'Til he was mouthing very near her precious bud, her stiffening clitoris. That wondrous nub. Making his very tongue-tip to swirl in a circle round and round it, never quite touching. Never quite. Just stimulating all the flesh around the perimeter, almost teasingly. To bait her very breath. To let her know that anticipation wasn't to be wasted, but savored. That the build-up was integral to the experience. And he exhaled deeply onto her flesh. And circled his tongue some more, some more, until, finally, he simply slipped his lips over it. Cause he had to. Wanted to. And touched his tongue to the tip. And gave a suck. A suckle. Or two, three. A suckle more. Four. Again.
" ... a-ah," was the response. Whether it was a gradual sigh or a forced exhale, it was hard to tell above the sound of the still-running shower. But his paws were still on her hips. He felt her movements. Her breaths. That last release of air had been a sharp one. From the way her belly had trembled. He could tell. And he kept at it, kept with the suckling, moving his paws up and down her hips, following the outlines, the curves, round to her rump and that flickering flame of a bobtail, which he stroked and tugged with a single paw. The other resting on a rump-cheek. While he gave an outright lick at her clitoris. Just a straight-on, straightforward, slow, sensual lick. " ... o-oh, un-h," she responded, from above. The sounds were louder, but less crisp, as she was muttering them a bit. Between breaths. As if her sounds began to slur from the airy intoxication of this.
Ross began to lose himself, bit by bit, in the act, in her sex, in the sweetness of it. He knew the taste. They'd been married for three years. He'd had her more times than he could ever hope to count. He knew her taste, her scent. Her touch. By memory. By instinct. The texture and feel of every part of her body, especially these parts. And his eyes just rolled back happily, nose sniffing wildly, as he left her clitoris and began a more fevered sort of 'eating.' Oh, yes, this was more like it.
He was a creature of finesse. Mouses were. He wasn't going to be sloppy about this. But the hunger he felt was undoubtedly affecting his technique. And it couldn't be denied that he enjoyed giving her muzzle. So much so that, if given the choice, he'd rather go down between her legs. Eight times out of ten. Than get suckled off by her. Though, no mistake, he enjoyed both. They often did both. But he just treasured this more. Somehow. Giving it to her. Her. Having her. Tending to her. Such was his submissiveness. Or such was the spell she cast over him. Such was the exotic lure of the snow rabbit.
Aria's knees began to buckle, slightly, as the mouse's tongue dipped into her wet, raw vagina. Just the tip of his tongue. He couldn't get any further than that. He was a mouse, not a dog. His tongue was, like the rest of him, modest. But he used it so earnestly. And dip it he did, into that honey-pot of hers, while his nose simultaneously sniffed and twitched very close to her clitoris. His whole face and muzzle bumping up against her, pleasuring her, tongue beginning to swirl out of her vagina and back up, up, back to her nub, while two furry fingers. From his right paw. Two of those fingers slipped easily inside of her, curling at the knuckles. So that the blunt-clawed tips were pressing to the upper wall. Pressing, stroking, fingers gently sliding in and out, and her clitoris back in his mouth, and ...
" ... u-uh! H-h ... uh ... " A mew. A rabbit-mew, almost melodic, as her paws weakened on his shoulders. She slumped, head hanging, lips parting. The fluttering. It started small. But it soon broke out into shaking tremors, as her walls just wracked with the force of orgasm, the wondrous, so-pleasant force, the sensations flung to her very extremities. Flushing her. Breathlessly making her to scrunch her features for a second or two. Or longer. Before a sigh, a heavy, shaky sigh. "Oh ... "
She sniffed once. Just once, licking her lips, eyes daring to peek open. The shower-stream raining onto the back of her head, running down her backside. Soaking her tail, which flicker-flicked the water out. Or tried to. It wasn't working. But who cared. Gosh. " ... mm," she went, clearing her throat. And pushing off her husband's shoulders, to try and stand fully upright again. Putting a single paw on a breast. Over her heart. She felt her nipples were hard. And it made her sigh heavily. Again.
Ross just sat there, still on his shins and knees, panting squeakily. And licking, unembarrassed, at her vagina. Despite Aria's subtle change of position. Fingers hot and matted, and withdrawn. Tongue taking their place. At the entrance. Between those folds. Leaving her overly-sensitive clitoris alone, now. And just going for lazy, slow licks elsewhere, as if trying to get every bit of juice. He swallowed a few times. He'd gotten the trickle when she came. It ran down his throat, in little rivulets, even before he could swallow.
He still tasted her. Still felt her heat. Oh, that heat. The full and fertile promise of it. He wanted more than just to taste it. He wanted to be there. Inside. With it. Part of it. He needed. More. Needed. To be drunk on her. He already was. " ... mm?" he went, craning his neck, eyes glazed over.
She looked steamily down.
While he dreamily looked up.
The snow rabbit swallowed, almost bowled over by the sheer cuteness. In his eyes, his face. All of him. Oh, that infamous mousey quality, that intangible pull. Couldn't be explained, but simply was. All whisker-twitchy and pure. The innocence he maintained, in spite of everything. How was that possible? In today's cynical, demanding society? To see that kind of bright faith? That mouses could be so sweet and ideal? She'd thought, previously, before meeting him, that the whole 'mouses are so cute' thing was one of those lame furry stereotypes. Like how foxes were supposed to be sly, owls wise, or cats were lazy, and all that. But, no, some furry stereotypes were simply real. In the end of it. Yes, rabbits really were over-sexed. And mouses really were that cute. And she didn't mind at all. She wouldn't have the world work in any other way.
The mouse, meanwhile, could only think: she's my snow angel. My snow angel. I love her so much. And he mouthed this, quietly, against her belly, fondling her bottom and tail while he did. Muffle-mouthing into her wet fur: I love you so much.
Aria, sighing, intuited it. Knew what he was trying to say, and whispered it back in her proper snow rabbit way. As do I. Love you, as well. Ross. Whispered. Above the sound of the shower. And also let him know, with some gentle finger-strokes to the backs of his deep-pink earlobes, that, no, they weren't done yet. Playfully grabbing at his whiskers, tugging them. So carefully. So gingerly. Letting him know to get up. Stand up. They'd made half-love just then, just a minute ago. Now was time for the fuller thing. Taken further. The main course.
Now was time for that no-holds-barred kind of intimacy that they, as mates, as husband and wife, had shared so often, and would share until they were gone from this world and into the next. It was like, suddenly, even more than before, paws became magnets. Unable to stay off each other. It was like she was his cheese and he was her carrot. And the playfulness that laced the entirety of this winter washing became drugged with a serious passion, the kind that foundations were built on, the kind that lasted. The kind that made you not just hazy. But seriously heady.
Ross stood, leaning into her. The blood rushing to his head and ears, making him very dizzy for a bit. More than a bit. But he, breathing erratically, fought through it, pinning her to the shower wall. Just like, earlier, she'd pinned him to the bathroom wall. The positions reversed. But no less submissive. His personality, his motions. So shy, so soft, so gradual. He wanted to get right to it, yes. But it just wasn't in his nature to be lurid when making love. He had to savor it. No matter how fast he wanted to go, no matter how hungry he was, the desire to savor her, every bit of her, and to make it reverberate in their hearts? The emotion won over.
And, so, gently, he fondled her breasts. For a few seconds. A paw on each breast, holding, cupping, lifting them up. Letting them go. Such beautiful things. Oh, lovely. And then, in the midst of this admiration, running his furred thumbs back and forth, so airily, over the nipples. Watching her shiver and shudder. Watching her catch her breath as he lowered his head, eyes wide open while giving a few suckles here and there. The left nipple more so than the right. Because her heart was there. The heat. The beat. And then going upright again, he took a deep inhale, and began to make the move. Finally. To lift one of her legs. A paw, after some affectionate rubbing, hooking under it. Bashfully making eye contact in the process. Getting flustered again. His eyes unable to stay entirely still, darting occasionally.
She met those eyes, in return, with unblinking steadiness, hotly confident. And just plain hot. And surely looking it. The way water was dripping off her whiskers. The way her tall ears were bending over, drooping with heat. The way her bobtail was halfway trapped, halfway flickering between her lower back and the slick wall. The way those nipples were hard, yes. All of it. The way. The way of her. She had such a loving lust in her eyes. That infamous rabbit-y sex drive. That virility. She wanted it. Badly. Sex. Now. Please.
And the only reason she was able to contain herself at all was because of that snow rabbit 'freeze.' If she'd been a regular rabbit, she'd have been grunting and grabbing without restraint. They'd already be halfway through intercourse. But she was able to hold back. Able. Knowing he wanted the romance. And she, too. Wanted it. Breath shaking, her other leg lifting. When one leg was secure, the other lifted. Her back against the shower-wall. And her arms immediately going around his neck. Holding tight. Her legs, too, wrapping round his waist. All of herself. Latching to him. Tightly. Ready. Maybe no more waiting? Maybe now, after all. Her eyes shutting and her lips on his cheek, she whispered that she was ready. Please. I'm ready. Their whiskers brushing and tangling.
Take me, darling.
Breed me.
He held her, securely, just as she held him, in this mutual, improvised embrace, angling his trim, rural hips, with a few raises and a lot more dips. Into position he got, mouse-hood bobbing, at its full five inches, modest and circumcised (as most male rodents were) but nicely thick. Curving naturally, very slightly to the left. With a vein showing along the right side. That thing, that essence of him, meeting up with the essence of her. Parting through her labia in a mere second. And the blunt, plum-pink head, already dribbling some pre, poking up into her. Just an especially-sensitive bit. A bit more. Two inches. And hips raising. And paws letting her legs and rump lower, barely. A deeper thrusting motion. To the hilt. Oh. Glorious. He sighed heavenly. And his whiskers drooped from the heat as he tried to take that air back in. His erogenous ears throbbing like solar panels atop his head.
Aria breathed inward, too, through the nose. Keeping her eyes closed. A sound from the throat. And hugging his neck tighter. Wrapping her thighs and legs around his waist. Tighter, yes. Rabbits. Excellent lower body strength. Oh, she could squeeze the air out of him if she wanted. But she wasn't going to do that. Holding tightly but not ridiculously so. Never letting him forget that the weight of her was being supported by the weight of him. That they were in this together. But trying to make it feel like they were lighter than gravity allowed. And weren't they, now? Weren't they about to waltz through rarified air?
The mouse wasn't going to forget that, of course. That he was holding her up. And nibbled at her cheek, her chin, with the utmost ginger-ness. Licking at her lips. Before, again, a kiss. Just as before. Only the shower-kisses here and now were simpler, shorter. Than the longer, out-of-shower kisses. Maybe because with their lips occupied and water dripping off their noses, they had to take more breaths. Their hearts were beating faster. They needed more air. They needed air like they needed each other: desperately. Panting, sniffing, lips smacking, and after that first minute of just savoring the sensation of genitals merged as slippery, steamy one ...
... now, finally, beginning to rock and writhe. Truly. Ross pulling out of her nature-made sheath. A perfect fit for him. That tunnel of slick muscle, that furnace of sweet, sweet pleasure. Burying in and pulling out, to create that back and forth, that friction, like the bow playing the strings, like the sword into the scabbard, like everything poetic and pure. It was such a startlingly basic motion. Just back and forth. That was it. But, goodness, the complexity of the resulting sensations. And, oh, how you could take that mere motion and decorate it so: gyrating your hips, his hips. The mouse gyrating his hips in a clockwise fashion, just for a bit. Mixing it up. Before resuming the simple in and out, no hint of doubt in his ministrations. Lingering shyness, always. But never any doubt. He trusted her. He'd never trusted anyone else like this. She was it.
The ache that had been lingering in her loins, off and on, was now entirely gone. Gone. Replaced with a welcome, fundamental fullness. No longer hollow. No longer needing to be filled. But needing to be driven. Further and further, to the brink, to that ultimate firework of love. That explosive moment. The excitement. The promise of orgasm. She'd already had one, of course. But she could handle another. Needed another. Wanted another, yes, yes. She was a femme rabbit. She hadn't as many limits as her mouse did.
Her paws clutched at the wet fur on his back, feeling the muscles tense beneath as he held her, as he obliged both her instinct and his, never ceasing his motions, never ceasing the in and out. Proceeding with a devout passion, intent on getting them there.
I'll get us there.
And it was, now, like always, that Aria realized that everything else had sort of faded away. It was deadly cold outside (well, maybe not quite as much for Arctic-bred furs like her, but definitely for everyone else). The threat of much snow. Already, there was ice. They were basically trapped in their apartment for a while. And there were other things to prey on their prey-like minds, too: school, work, finances, everything else. They wanted to have a baby someday (which wouldn't be easy in and of itself, as rabbits and mouses were only just barely compatible enough to reproduce). Get a house in the country. Live far and away, and sleep with the lightning bugs beneath the Big Dipper on summery alfalfa nights, and make love in the wild irises on Sunday afternoons. They had a future to plan. That, sometimes, seemed so impossibly far off. But none of it worried them, now. And hadn't, really, since they'd entered the bathroom together.
Since they'd come in here, bare except for Ross's bow?
It was only here, only this.
Only the two of them.
Only you and me, darling.
Even the sounds of the water steadily dripping onto the floor of the tub didn't seem to register. Didn't seem to connect. Or the fact that the water had been running for so long that the 'hot' wasn't really that 'hot' anymore? Their own bodies were hotter than the water, seemingly. They could almost make the water sizzle. They were on fire. They were burning up. And all that mattered, in the face of this?
Was putting the fire out.
Bringing each other to full swoon.
And while, on one paw, you didn't want it to end, you never wanted it to end. You wanted it to keep going. Forever. The pleasure. You wanted to sustain it. It remained that good sex wasn't just one, continuous thing. It was bits and pieces. It was the foreplay. The before. The intercourse. The during. And the afterglow and snuggling. The resolution. And the seeds and stages of desire that would flower fully, once again, after a well-deserved rest.
So, while the fire needed to be put out, it would renew itself. Like a cycle. They both knew. It would burn again. It always did. Love, like an endless box of matches, ensured it. Right now, just let it end, and, oh, enjoy the relief. Just ... bodies ... begging for release.
Need. Oh ...
... the frantic need.
To finish.
The mouse's seed creeping closer to a triggering-point, as his bare penis stiffly drove, drove up and into the snow rabbit's precious, familiar vagina, her sex, sopping wet and beginning to ripple in crazed want. Squelching and slick-slicking audibly at the source. As if milking him for what he had to give. As if luring him to up the ante on the friction, just a bit more, just a bit, both their bodies subconsciously playing each other to ensure this happened, to get him into sowing her womb. She was on a pill, though, and not even in heat, but what did it matter? The beauty of the act wasn't lessened, biologically, emotionally, mentally, artistically. In every conceivable way, it was fulfilling. It was ...
... driving into her, in such a way that she was bumped back against the shower wall. Wet, matted, panting, and mewing more unhindered than before. Feeling him angle himself, position himself. And she took it, arching, ensuring that their bellies and hips bumped and grinded. Ensuring that her clitoris get as much stimulation as he could give it, even if it was just his fur rubbing over it. Or his hips pressing against it. He'd give it enough. He would, and was, and yes, yes ... and ... the snow rabbit's eyes rolled back. Maw fell open. " ... a-ah, ah. Ah-n-n." A brief, sharp breath. Her whiskers gave a singular twitch. Her ears drooped fully over, flopping. Going momentarily lop-eared. " ... oh!" Mews, by the weak, throaty ear-ful, spilling from her like honey. They were sweet sounds. The mouse loved to hear them. Loved to know that she'd gotten there. To that promised land of ecstasy. That physical moment of utter 'yes-ness.'
He felt her walls flutter and sputter, again. As an obvious result. Only this time, he was inside them, with them. They surrounded. The spasms. They were like shocks to his system. So very wet and hot, so very gentle. So very ... very. Good. It wasn't like her vagina was doing anything extreme. It was just simple. Simple, pouting tremors, squeezing all around him, not leaving a single bit of his flesh untouched. Just as, all throughout the act, he'd not left a single bit of her walls un-brushed by his strokes. They'd played each other to perfection. And, now, the final, triumphant notes had been hit. And were being sung via moans.
" ... o-oh, o-oh," she whined, trying, weakly, to buck back at him somehow. The pleasure. Oh. But it was very hard in this position. Her legs, strong as they were, couldn't help but weaken. She shook and ... d-drew ... air ... her cervix, unbeknownst to her, involuntarily dipping down, awaiting a pool of seed. The fluttering spawning other flutters. Her heart, even. Fluttering ...
... making him hold her tighter. He held her tighter. His tufted, furry sac, the orbs so swollen. Tighter. It felt. His sac, so tight, so ... swollen. And, unable to stand it. Unable to outlast the barrage that her body was throwing at him, he tensed, squeaked, and ... oh. Oh, yes. S-shivered from nose to tail-tip. Surprised he'd even lasted this long. But no more. Lasting. No more. His cheeks tingled. His penis, too. Tingling. Fiercely. Before the first jerk, jerk. Nothing. At first. And then ... a-another. And, then, the spurts. Steamy-white mouse-semen, seriously spurting, by the spoon-ful, pelting the snow rabbit's familiar cervix. Coating it. Mouse-seeds immediately seeping past and drawn on the path to her womb. He s-sowed ... her, and g-gaped, squeakily crying out. " ... u-uh, uh ... u-o-oh ... "
The snow rabbit, nose and muzzle on his shoulder, eyes shut, just held to him. Feeling, almost feeling that seed fill her. The warmth. Further warmth. The spurting. The twitching of his dear mouse-hood. The pulsing of it. It was throbbing. And she swallowed and just breathed, just ... still feeling after-shocks, after-tremors, still tapering ...
... squeaking still, each ejaculation like a burst. " ... ah, ah! O-oh ... g-g ... gosh." Whimper-squeaks, dizzy and dazed, slumping against her. " ... oh, gosh ... oh ... " If Aria had been vocal during her orgasm, the mouse was more so. Always. Was more so. Such a 'squeaker' during sex. She'd often tease him that he couldn't keep quiet to save his life. But, goodness, it was beyond cute. " ... u-uh ... oh." Until, gradually, it stopped. His mouse-hood. Out of seed. She'd milked him for every last drop. Every. Drop. His throat felt dry. He had to swallow and take a deep breath, almost disoriented. Almost not knowing what had happened for a few seconds. But soon regaining his focus.
" ... mm." A dear, full-on nuzzling of his neck. From her. A very feminine, grateful mew. Body still held and elevated, still wrapped around his.
And sighing, chittering. Squeaky sounds in response. Tenderness. From him, as he kissed the side of her face in a repeatedly reverent way, getting close enough to her drooping left ear to whisper, " ... I ... I love you." A pause, breathing for a moment, and continuing, just because he wanted to, "S-so much ... Aria." An emotional sniffle, eyes watering. It felt so good to say. It was the truth. And the truth set you free, didn't it? Faith saved you. Truth set you free. And love. What did love do? The mouse decided that the answer to that had to be: everything. " ... you're my everything," he breathed, sniffling again. Breathing deeply.
She sighed and whispered back, "A-and you ... mine. I l-love you, as ... as well, Ross." That proper way. That breathless tone. That sultriness satisfied. For now. Her naked, wet body uncurling, un-latching from his. Eventualy. Limb by limb. Right leg first, and ...
... flushing, panting, he pulled out of her. His penis flopping, semi-limp and glistening. Leaving excess semen to drip out of her like molasses. To stream down her thighs, blending, somewhat, against the color of her fur. " ... you, uh, need water? To drink, I mean?" Snow rabbits, being from the ice, dehydrated twice as fast as most furs. They usually kept a water bottle beside their bed, even. So she could take a water break when making love. If she needed to.
" ... I will ... will get some in the kitchen. When we finish washing. I can last until then," she said, with warm, reassuring tone, putting a paw on his cheek. Her throat was very dry, though. And her breath was still more labored than his, even though the mouse had done most of the 'heavy lifting' during their playing.
The rural rodent nodded, but was still concerned. He always worried about her. So devoted.
"You gave me a lot more than usual, I see," she said cheekily, gently tapping at his now-limp penis, noticing (and feeling) the mess leaking out of her. She turned to grab the soap and shampoo, and flashed him a glittering eye-smile as she did so.
" ... I ... I like breeding you," was all his afterglow-addled mind could think of to say. He blinked a few times, trying to regain his senses. Whiskers twitching.
"And I like being bred," she said, in that calm, soothing way. "Soap?" She held it out for him.
He daintily took it.
"But I don't think liking sex ... " She flipped open the bottle-top. " ... or 'making love,' as you might more politely call it, makes you produce more semen." Her nose went to his. Black to pink. "Correct?" A raised brow, beginning, in a sensual, sudden way, to lather shampoo into his fur. All over. Stepping them back a bit, out of the path of the jetting water. Her bobtail flicker-flicked wetly.
A shy swallow. " ... I, uh, guess not, no. No." A helpless smile, the dimples showing on his mousey cheeks. "I guess it just means I'm a healthy mouse?" he said, hopefully, playfully, as he rubbed the soap up and down her back. Then between her thighs, and up her belly Soapy fur. Soapy paws. Shampoo and soap applied liberally to him and her, and as they hugged and swayed and cuddled. And nuzzled. All those things. The soap and suds mixed and spread. 'Til they were both covered. And, 'til, free to simply hug each other once more, they segued back under the shower head. And let it rain down on them.
Let it wash them, finally, fully.
Squeaky clean.
"It was such a beautiful mess we made. That we always make," she eventually whispered, barely audible. " ... I never feel, afterward, less than pure. I may have my lusty tendencies, but ... " She half-turned, shutting the water off. Then facing him again, nakedly. " ... but when the world is crushing down on us like a cold anvil? When it's so frigid outside that it hurts to breathe, and your ear-mittens and tail-socks won't even protect you? When the wind seems to sneak through the windows and walls, trying to extinguish us, and when we're just ... trapped here? It's then," she said, gingerly taking his paws, both paws. " ... it's then that I most appreciate how much I need your love to stay alive. As cheesy as that sounds. Lust burns too quickly. The fire of our love? Burns longer and brighter. You sustain me."
"Aria ... " He bit his lip, wanting to protest. Not because what she said wasn't true. But just ... well, because it was making his ears turn rosy-pink. Just when they'd gotten back to their normal color, too. " ... I, uh." A blushing stammer-squeak. " ... I need you, too," was all he could say.
"You getting emotional again?" A raised, slightly-ribbing brow. Ears back to full attention.
A playful, squinty-eyed head bob. Sniffling. "Mm, maybe." He sniffled again, wiping his eyes, but smiling. Whiskers twitching. "Yes."
" ... my darling mouse." Her lips gently went to his. A brief, pecking kiss. Before pulling away, still holding to his paws. And guiding him carefully out of the shower. Onto the towel on the floor. And reaching for a second towel (hanging on a rack) and handing it to him. "Dry me?" she declared, primly, ears standing tall. Flickering her bobtail prettily. It resembled, at times, a holy-white flame.
A smiling, submissive nod. " ... mm-hmm." Barely audible. So gentle, using the towel to rub her down. And, as he did so, the bathroom light flickered. In the lingering fog of the hot water they'd used, it flicker-flashed. Briefly off, and then back on. Prompting the mouse, rubbing his wife's shoulders, to whisker-twitch and comment, "The power might go out ... before the morning. I bet." An anxious twitch. "If it does ... " His voice got real squeaky. More than normal.
" ... I'll keep you warm. I'll keep you safe," Aria said, protectively. Seriously. Calming him down. "You're a country boy. I come from the tundra. We'll survive, alright? I know you don't like living in the city, but ... " They'd undoubtedly be 'snowed in' tomorrow. Maybe the whole weekend. Having no electricity would be bad, yeah. But, still. It probably wouldn't come to that. A head-tilt and a nod. " ... how about drying my front?" she said, now.
"You gonna dry me, too? When I'm done with you?" A hopeful smile, anxiety dissolving. "Return the favor?"
"Of course. I don't bring soaking-wet mouses into bed with me. Only dry ones." Her eye-smile. Still there, and still glowing.
"I've been sweaty in bed. With you. That's kind of wet."
"You know what I mean." An ear-twiddle. "Proceed?" She lifted her arms a bit, so he could dry off her front.
A slight giggle-squeak, still feeling that afterglow, yes. Still feeling it. Drying off her breasts, massaging them through the towel, and then her belly, and bending down. To ruffle through all the rest of her fur. Until he handed the towel back to her, and turned away, raising his tail a little. "My turn." A pause, before, " ... wait. How do I know you're not gonna squeeze my rump when you dry by backside?" he asked, looking over his shoulder, all cute-like.
"You are simply going to have to trust me," was the sultry response, putting her weight on one hip. And holding the towel with both paws.
"I trust that you're gonna squeeze my rump, is what I trust." A dimpled, whisker-twitchy smile. "You're a rabbit. That's what you do."
"Grab rumps?"
" ... heh. No. Well, yes. Like ... you get physical. Whenever you get the chance."
"I believe we were both 'getting physical' just a bit ago." A smooth, ear-waggling look. "You are just as 'physical' as me.' The only difference is: yours is a 'touchy-feely' physicality. Mine's a 'grabby-feely' kind. One is more emotional. The other is more impulsive."
"Well ... I, uh. Yeah." He cleared his throat. He couldn't argue that. "You're gonna grope my rump, then? You're admitting it?"
"I did not say that. Now, do you want me to dry you off or not?" the snow rabbit postured, raising a brow. Giving him a look of mock-sternness and impatience.
He sighed, giggle-squeaking. Looking forward again. "Alright. Well ... " And taking a deep breath. "I guess you ca-an ... ah, h-heh!" A helpless, whisker-twitching squeak, muzzle pointing up. Raising to the tips of his foot-paws. Those furred, blunt-clawed toes, wind-milling his arms a bit, so he didn't wobble over. " ... A-aria, I knew it," he went, ears turning that deeper shade of pink again. His rump-cheeks being massaged and squeezed. And not through the towel, either. Just with her bare paws. Against his bare rump. For a few more seconds. And the mouse sighed and lowered back down, looking over his shoulder again. Trying to frown. But he just couldn't do it. He ended up biting back his smile. "Aria."
"Just warming you up," she said, with as much innocence as she could muster. And snow rabbits definitely weren't known for their innocence, no. She gave a kiss to his left rump-cheek. The fur there. Then, remaining on her knees, reeled in that long tail of his, and got to the tip. And blew on it. Blew a breath. And sucked on the tip. And then pretended to test it for temperature, as if it were a thermometer or something. "See? All warm. And, still," she said, "with your bow." A glittering eye-smile. "My pretty mouse."
His ears went from deep-pink to almost-red. Squeaky stammers.
And she just gave a mew of mirth, using the towel, now. Rubbing the backs of his legs, up his rump (though not squeezing this time). Then standing. Stretching her powerful, hoppy legs while doing his back. And untying the bow and hanging it on the towel-rack before she turned him around. "We'll let it dry overnight. Maybe you'll wear it again."
"Maybe you should wear it," the mouse said wispily, face-to-face. And almost nose-to-nose. "You look pretty in bows."
"Prettier than you?"
"I'm handsome. I'm supposed to be handsome." His trim, earthy-furred chest seemed to puff out a bit. Maybe subconsciously. "Males aren't pretty."
"Effeminate, submissive mouses ... are," she said, gently poking a finger against his chest, which made him lose his breath in a sigh. " ... are pretty. Yes." A mew of delight. "But I'll grant you being handsome, as well. If you insist."
"You're being awfully silly for a supposedly serene snow rabbit."
"I am still, like you ... in full afterglow," she said, logically, bluntly, "from my orgasm. I get a free pass to be somewhat silly. At least until it wears off. And maybe even for longer than that. It cannot," she assured, rubbing the almost-forgotten towel over his belly. Getting most of his chest dry, and then ... just letting the towel. Drop. Hide no nakedness, no more. Drying. Was done. " ... cannot be helped." It really couldn't. Sweet, dreamy afterglow. Leaning forward, she pecked another kiss on his lips. Only this time, she didn't pull away when it was over. She lingered there.
And Ross got the hint, and pressed to her. Forward. Paws gently gripping her sides. And the returned kiss was exquisite. Just luscious, long, simple. Nothing out of control. Nothing sloppy. But full and sweet, all the same. Until it, too, was broken. So they could breathe. Deep, audible breaths from the both of them.
" ... you're dry enough." A lick of her lips, weakly clearing her throat. "It must be after midnight." A swallow. "Bed? Before we turn into icicles?"
"Don't you mean pumpkins?" he said, blinking innocently. After midnight. Pumpkins. That was right, wasn't it?
"Not in this weather. Or season," she said, logically, eyes glowing. And a deft shake of the head. "We best brush our teeth and such first. And I'll get my water, too," she stated. If she hadn't needed it before that last kiss, she certainly needed it now. A nice drink.
So, that's what they did.
And five minutes later, they were finally in bed. Still 'in the fur,' and snuggling dearly together, beneath all the covers they had. Keeping warm. Keeping intimate company. Smelling fresh. And, also, of each other's natural scents. Their toes curling and foot-paws bumping purposefully. His ropy tail round one of her wrists. Whispering for a while of many things (the weather, of course, but also: about the Colts' playoff chances, Butler's league prospects, the idea of maybe making candy cane cookies tomorrow if they still had electricity, their favorite Christmas hymns, and even what position they might breed in after breakfast), before trailing off. Saying a prayer, though, before. Just before they completely zonked out. Thank you, dear God. For life and love. For our redemption ... and for. For ...
... and moments of silence, then.
A minute-long pause.
A minute, for ...
... before Ross finished, seeing Aria had already drifted off. The mouse finished, barely audible, 'In Jesus' name we pray.'
Oh. We breathe. We say.
Amen.
Both, now, finally, into slumber. Together. Inseparable, even in repose. Toes still touching toes. If anyone saw them sleeping together? They'd know. Oh, they would know. They looked so very much in love, even when sleeping together. Just their postures, the way they shared the covers, the way their heads were so close to each other. Almost sharing a pillow.
So, it may have been approaching the dead of zero degrees outside. True. Winter may have been, tonight, a predator. Clawing at everything and everyone. It may have been technically, going by the clock, tomorrow morning. Already. They might've been in bed. Bare, curling together. But their love, wrapped in a bow, and shared as sex or conversation or anything else. Was a gift that made them, Lord, so much more than safe, so much more than whole.
And so much more than warm.