Tue, February 07 2012
| TITLE: | A Prescription for Stress Relief in Minxes |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Polly Anne Morris |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | PWP |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17. Warning: The following text includes explicit sexual behaviors between consenting Virtual Muskrat Mansion residents and visiting characters, including genital/oral sex, genital/vaginal sex, genital/anal sex, and root vegetable sex aids. It was written for fun. If you'd rather not go there . . . don't go here. |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | You are so on your own with this one. |
| DESCRIPTION: | Minxes, mud bugs, muskrats, oh, my ... |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| AUTHOR'S NOTES: | This prescription is particular to, not to say peculiar to, the Mid-Atlantic Marten, and should not be taken by other genus-species combinations without prior consultation with a Physician. We understand that Dr. Victor (von?) Frankenstein is particularly elegant this time of year if you can catch him in his early Peter Cushing mode, but recommend checking on the condition of the castle, the general mood of the peasantry, and the number of empty bottles of brandy strewn about the landings before one attempts to make an appointment. |
Miss Marten lay on the satin sheets of her large, lush, circular bed in her boudoir, stretching her webby webby feet with their sharp and pointy claws one by one in a meditative manner.
"I am Bothered," Miss Marten said, to nobody in particular. "I have Stress. And there does not seem to be anything in particular that I can do about it." Rolling over onto her sleekly pelted side she reached over the side of the bed for the box of live crawdads that a gentleman bat admirer had had delivered and popped one into her mouth, morosely, crunching up its carapace shell with enthusiasm and gusto and dabbling daintily at the raw juices that ran down her minxlike jaw with a napkin of the very finest Irish linen as the mud-bug died. "Why doesn't some benignly-intentioned fanwriter take me away from all this?"
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the sound of a familiar, if at this particular moment high and squeaky, voice. "May I come in, darling Miss Marten?" It was the voice of Angelo, a gentleman bat caller, whose difficulty with finding a consistent speaking range (given the fact that he was a bat) did not interfere with his ability to call upon a lady with persuasion and conviction. This is a positive development, Miss Marten thought, hopefully.
"Come in, Angelo, but I must warn you that I am not in a very good Mood this morning, because of Circumstances that I would rather not relate."
The door was pushed open slowly by a pair of pretty little messenger bunnies in pink frocks and red pinafores, satin ribbons in their soft loppy ears. It was a big door, being one of the large double variety. It took the bunnies a moment or two to complete their task, which gave Miss Marten ample opportunity to examine her gentleman bat caller, who was waiting patiently at the threshold. He was in morning dress, which was encouraging, and appeared to have brought a bunny entourage with him; which followed him into the room once the door-opening bunnies had done their door-opening thing. They bore flowers, boxes whose lids bumped and juddered in a manner indicative of luscious live bait to be found within, and a very large bottle of champagne.
"Permit me to attempt to beguile you," Angelo said. His voice had settled down into its more normal hominid range, though his accent was still a little shaky. Sitting down on the edge of the bed he took one webby webby paw in his wing-flange and kissed it on the pads, one by one, convincingly. The bunnies completed their assorted tasks of opening heart-shaped boxes of minx treats and fixing netting firmly over their tops to prevent anything from escaping, putting the champagne on ice, and arranging the flowers; one Japanese bunny did take rather a long time over placement of the final stem, but they were finally all finished, and lined up in front of the bed looking at Miss Marten's gentleman bat caller with hopeful expectation.
"You are very clever bunnies," Angelo said. "Root vegetables for everyone." (He had recently read that, expectations to the contrary notwithstanding, bunnies did not actually particularly care for carrots to the exclusion of other treats; and had therefore come equipped with beets, rutabagas, parsnips, turnips, and parsley roots. Along with carrots, for whoever was inclined. One of the turnips had an intriguing shape, and Miss Marten was rather disappointed to see it being clutched greedily in the soft velvety paws of one of the bunny pages, who took a special friend by the paw and hopped away rapidly.)
Once the bunnies had left the room and closed the doors behind them Angelo opened the very large bottle of champagne, and poured two glasses. "A toast to you, Miss Marten," Angelo said. "Such a clever slinky Minx cannot be permitted to languish without entertainment." The peculiarly shaped mouth of the champagne bottle suddenly looked rather promising as well, and Miss Marten had to shake her head. She was clearly in an Advanced State of minxishness.
Miss Marten accepted her glass of champagne and downed it in one swallow. Angelo raised an eyebrow at her and poured champagne from his glass to hers; she drank that as well. Tossing his glass over his batlike shoulder Angelo took Miss Marten into his arms and evaluated the vintage and dryness of the champagne in her mouth with his tongue, apparently finding it to his liking, because he continued to evaluate long after that particular mouthful of champagne had disappeared. "What a nice Minx you are," Angelo said, after some time had elapsed. "Might one be permitted to express one's deep appreciation for your finer Minx-like qualities, some of which are here, and some of which are here, but some of the very nicest of which are here?"
He was a gentleman bat of experience, and very persuasive. Miss Marten shivered. "Angelo," she protested, undoing the satiny sash of his morning dress (which in this case was in fact a dressing-gown). "Minxes eat bats. Not the other way around."
He ran his hands up her long slinky thighs, smiling in an encouraging manner. "We live in an age of wonder," he said. "In which one must re-evaluate one's previously maintained paradigms on a frequent basis. Now you will excuse me if I urgently request your leave to see a Minx about an oyster."
She didn't mind the occasional oyster herself, so it seemed petty to grudge him hers: especially when he was such a skillful and appreciative consumer of oysters. His batlike tongue was at once firm and soft, cool and hot, and made her wriggle uncontrollably until her entire body shook; and he caressed her with his fingers as well, but she didn't want fingers where he caressed her, she wanted something batlike that also resembled a peculiar turnip or the long tapered mouth of a very large bottle of champagne with a rounded tip to it.
After an hour or so had elapsed Miss Marten felt that she had been polite enough about the oysters. "Come here to me, Angelo," Miss Marten said. "Stop fooling around in the shoal-waters. You have calls to complete."
Rubbing his cheek in a very cat-like manner against her firmly rounded thighs Angelo sighed, as if in resignation, and shifted himself on the bed, which had become somewhat more disarranged than previously. "Your wish, darling Miss Marten, is my command," he said, politely; she noted with appreciation and anticipation that the masculine portion of his batlike nature was indeed very firm and of encouraging proportions. "And may I say as well that it is my very great pleasure - "
He sheathed himself to the hilt in her slick hot minxlike vulva and groaned aloud in bliss, apparently unable to complete his thought. He was an extraordinarily strong person, for a bat, and held her in his arms very securely as he tested her for fit and function. A perfectionist, it seemed to take him quite some time to assure himself that he did indeed find a perfect place for his virile member, but once placed she could find no fault with its conformance to expectation or its brisk and enthusiastic approach.
Her stress levels had abated perceptibly by the time he completed his performance. It would have been boorish, she felt, to fault the morning's entertainment simply because she was not completely satisfied with it; but she was a Minx, and Minxes were under no obligation to pretend, no matter how grateful they might be for favors received. It was in the Minx Manual. Therefore, her feelings when the Muskrat of the Mansion suddenly appeared at the door were ones of predatory interest rather than mild disappointment at his late arrival.
"I say, Miss Marten," the Muskrat said (yes, he did). "I've heard that your life is Stressful, and wanted to come see if there was anything - Oh, my gosh. A thousand apologies. I hadn't realized you were entertaining."
Well, no, but if he'd bothered to knock he might have spared himself some embarrassment. Miss Marten rolled over atop Angelo with voluptuous sauciness to flash her beautifully plump Minx-like rump at the Muskrat while she kissed Angelo, who was trying to recover from his spend. "By all means," she called back over her shoulder. "Come in, sit down. There's champagne. Angelo and I were just - finishing."
She wriggled her rear to make her meaning unambiguously clear. Beneath her, his face safely shielded from the Muskrat's view, Angelo was smiling at her, shaking his head with undisguised fondness and admiration. "You are indeed a Minx among minxes," he said. "May I call on you again - or do you want me to stay?"
It was an intriguing concept, but she knew about Muskrats and believed that she could elicit a more enthusiastic performance from him if Angelo left than if Angelo stayed. "Maybe another time." She smooched him on his batlike nose. "Lovely idea. And a perfectly lovely screw, too, thank you, Angelo."
"Believe me, Miss Marten," he said, with absolute conviction. "It was my very great pleasure. Some other time, then."
Rolling her over once again in turn Angelo kissed her and drew his discarded dressing-gown up over his naked body at one and the same time, turning his back on the Muskrat to stand up and belt himself. "Au revoir, dear Miss Marten," Angelo said to her, over his shoulder, ignoring the Muskrat completely. "My heart-felt gratitude, and eternal devotion entire and complete."
He let himself out, and didn't so much as look at the Muskrat even once. This behavior made the Muskrat feel very fumy, Miss Marten anticipated. That was in fact the entire idea. Angelo was very good to her.
Once Angelo had closed the door behind him Miss Marten stretched her naked body on the bed with deliberate abandon. "Would you be a dear and pour me some champagne?" she suggested. "It's very kind of you to call."
The Muskrat clearly did not know what to think, but no Muskrat worth his salt could possibly have sat there in a marten's boudoir with a very large bottle of champagne on one side and the sleekly furred and entirely naked body of a slinky lascivious Minx on the other and remain unmoved. "Well, one heard that you were a bit beset," he admitted, cautiously, pouring champagne into the one glass he could find. He carried it over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, with his back to her; but as she made no move to cover herself, he seemed perfectly willing to admire her in the full glory of her minxishness. With some suspicious residual dampening of vaginal fluid glistening in her furbelow, but such things frequently aroused Muskrats, where they might have put off a lesser . . . er . . . rodent. "And one is responsible for the welfare of ladies in one's Mansion. After all."
She pushed herself up onto her elbow to take the glass of champagne. The Muskrat turned in order to pass it to her, but once re-oriented on the bed stayed re-oriented, and ventured to walk the long slim fingers of his own webby webby paw up her shin to her thigh, and thence to her very appropriately plumply rounded belly, and up to her breasts; of which, of course, being a minx, she had several, all of which's nipples were still tingling from Angelo's embrace. He counted, jumping from nipple to nipple gently with his fingertips and rubbing at them one by one as he went to make her wiggle. "In that case," Miss Marten said. "And, if you're serious. There is something you can do for me, you Muskrat, and can you guess what it might be?"
He smoothed his webby webby palm down her front to tuck his fingers between her thighs and check on the status of her oyster in response. He was intelligent, for a Muskrat. "I haven't had my breakfast," Miss Marten pointed out, and pushed him flat onto his back on the bed. "You don't mind, surely." His muskrat manhood was still only half-erect once she had it out of his trousers and drawers, but it responded very briskly to the friendly little scratchy pats of a Minx-paw. There was something about Muskrats that brought out the predator in her - possibly the fact that she was a predator. Possibly. Fortunately for her the angle of his erection made it possible for her to lick him up and down and swallow him up with deliberate care into her mouth (taking very special care to avoid any unfortunate collisions with sharp minxy teeth on the way) and he in turn put his arms around her and pressed her to him, and proceeded to polish the pearl within her oyster with precision and dispatch.
She had been thoroughly enjoyed twice today already, and therefore had the advantage of the Muskrat; who proved incapable of withstanding her linguistic skills. Being in a savage Minxy mood (it was actually becoming rather a good mood, but the very best moods for Minxes are the savage ones, because of their savage Minxy natures) she tormented him with pleasure, leading him up to the edge of the precipice and pulling him away with a cunning little trick of one sort or another time and again while he groaned aloud between her thighs with beguiled desperation. He would come when she was good and ready for him to do so, and very shortly before she was ready for him to do so she opened her eyes in response to a sudden and unexpected draft to find the pleasant face of the hedgehog looking down at her over the Muskrat's very elegant hip.
"May I join you?" he asked, politely. "That looks like such fun. And I've always wanted."
A shy glance at the Muskrat's equally elegant rump told the Minx exactly what the hedgehog had always wanted. Not wishing to lose her place; she simply winked. The Muskrat was losing turgidity under the surprise and stress of this unexpected development, but she knew what to do about that; and he was, after all, so close to complete annihilation that it was not difficult to bring him back into stiff-staffed monomania, not even with the hedgehog lifting the Muskrat's thigh to make an assisted entry.
Granted, it was not the least awkward situation she had ever attempted, but she had the Muskrat where she wanted him after all; and the hedgehog was such a polite young man. She could afford to wait. She held the Muskrat in his place, suckling at him encouragingly from time to time to maintain an appropriate focus to his thoughts. It was not long before the Muskrat's body responded to the addresses that the hedgehog was paying to him, and he lost all of his reservations and fell back to petitioning her pearl with a degree of attentiveness that became more and more frantic as time went on. Miss Marten had no intention of showing him any mercy whatever. She waited. The hedgehog, enjoying as he was an unanticipated and unaccustomed pleasure, was not long in finding his satisfaction; and as the hedgehog cried out in final dissolution, and not one moment before, she drew the Muskrat over the edge at last and let him fall, graciously permitting him to come in her mouth by way of an apology for having played this little bit of a trick on him.
The hedgehog had tucked a towel between the muskrat's thighs to prevent any incidental staining of bed-linen, and lay on his side with his head sweetly on the muskrat's shoulder. The muskrat lay on his back staring at the ceiling with the pale and sweat-streaked face of a man who has seen God and lived, and his muskrat manhood tipped over of its own rapidly de-tumescing weight to lay its head down across his belly and rest there, exhausted and happy. Miss Marten wiped her mouth daintily with the napkin that still lay draped over the heart-shaped box full of mud-bugs, and poured some more champagne. "Drink this," she suggested, and held it for the hedgehog, who barely managed before he collapsed across his muskrat friend once more. "Now you," and she refilled the glass for the muskrat, holding his head up with tender care so that he could drink. There was still the better part of half a bottle left, since it had been a very large bottle of champagne, and she had a glass for herself, grinning at the suggestive lip of the bottle which had begun to look more like just the lip of a bottle in the last hour or so.
She recruited her energies with a quiet cuddle for several moments, her mood really very much improved - and yet still somehow not yet quite satisfied. The hedgehog, now. He was so sweet. And hedgehogs were probably prey for martens as well, under the correct circumstances. "Kiss?" Miss Marten suggested, and the hedgehog kissed her very nicely with his lovely soft young polite hedgehog mouth; being polite, he did not decline to share the pleasure with his muskrat friend, who accepted it with unusual submissive grace. Sexual exhaustion, Miss Marten decided, was good for a muskrat's soul; but before she had quite gotten up the energy to suggest some additional entertainment - while the muskrat was in an exhausted, and therefore receptive, state - there was yet another knock at the door, and this one made the short hairs on the back of the Minx's pelt stand straight up and whistle Dixie. (The author realizes that it is perhaps out of character for the short hairs of the pelt of a specifically mid-Atlantic Minx to whistle Dixie, but it is much easier than the Battle Hymn of the Republic, at least so far as whistling goes.)
"Hullo, is anyone at home?" someone called, from the other side of the door. "Miss Marten. Are you within?"
It was the Cunning Red Vixen, herself, and she opened up the door and slid briskly into the room, carrying a fragrance of cut grass and hot blood with her. "Someone's suggested a champagne breakfast. I've ordered omelets."
The hedgehog was covered with confusion, but he was also still too spent to move very quickly, and the Muskrat simply groaned. Miss Marten sat up, and reached for her dressing-gown. "Good-morning, Miss Vixen. I trust the morning finds you well?"
"Oh, don't bother about the dressing-gown on my account," the Vixen said, eyeing the Minx's beautiful sleek pelt with a very appreciative eye. "Are you done with these, or should I come back later?"
"We're, ah, finished, thank you," the hedgehog said, politely. "Please stay, Miss Vixen, we're just leaving. Come along," he said to his Muskrat friend, who responded slowly to instruction, as slowly as a Muskrat would move underwater if he were a mere hominid without the special aquatic skills of the very rare British country house pool-muskrat. "And Miss Marten. Thank you very much. It was a great pleasure. And I apologize for interrupting, but . . . ah . . ."
But he'd probably heard something, and nerved himself up to take advantage, and Miss Marten blessed his little hedgehog heart for it. "Any time," she assured him. "Good-day."
The Muskrat was still incapable of coherent speech, apparently, for he didn't attempt any. He simply put his right hand out to his hedgehog friend for assistance; the hedgehog laced the fingers of his left hand together with those on the right hand of his muskrat friend and left the room with the muskrat in tow like a slow-moving barge, which was fortunately moving slowly enough to allow for the partial resumption of necessary articles of clothing on the way.
The Vixen stared after them for a long moment.
Then she sat down on the bed.
"What was that all about?" she said. "If I may ask."
"Well, it started with a particularly rotten mood," Miss Marten explained. "My gentleman bat caller came to attempt to improve the situation. Our Muskrat host felt called upon to offer his services as well, however, and things rather developed from there."
The Vixen nodded, with great interest. "I see. And this mood that was particularly rotten. Has it been completely relieved?"
Miss Marten found the champagne glass that Angelo had discarded, which together with the one on the bed made two glasses. She poured for both of them. "Not entirely," she admitted. "Might I appeal to you in friendship to consider this situation?"
"Rather," the Vixen said, with a smile of cheerful promise and determination. "Darling Miss Marten."
Miss Marten had left her robe unfastened on the Vixen's encouragement; Miss Vixen drank her champagne and put the glass away, but being a sensible Vixen and not a bat she sensibly put it where she would be able to find it later. Curling her hand around Miss Marten's neck Miss Vixen kissed her friend, savoring as it seemed the very mixed flavors of muskrat, champagne, and mud-bug, which were also things that Vixens were prone to consume and which therefore gave no offense. Miss Vixen's slim strong fingers tickled a Marten's nipples even more skillfully and effectively than those of the Muskrat of the Mansion, though the latter sensation was not to be despised; Miss Marten set herself to the task of undoing Miss Vixen's buttons, cursing crossly to herself in the corner of her mind that she could spare from physical sensation at the Vixen's habit of never going into battle without the advantage of armament and fortifications.
Miss Vixen very considerately let herself be undressed, keeping her fingers and her tongue gainfully occupied. When Miss Marten had uncovered her sleekly pelted underbelly and her lovely round ripe breasts Miss Vixen sighed, and cupped the back of Miss Marten's head in the palm of one hand to encourage the Minx's grazing while she tickled about Miss Marten's body with the other.
"Your basic error," Miss Vixen said, and then gasped, as Miss Marten found her oyster. "Miss Marten. I am surprised at you. - Was to attempt to send a man, to do a woman's job. Oh, yes. Lovely. Just shift yourself a bit, dear, and we can both have some."
It was, as Miss Vixen indicated, just lovely.
The last fragments of Miss Marten's mood dissipated at last; and she frolicked happily with her Vixen friend until luncheon.