[18+] Opposites attract in the countryside as a shy mouse and outgoing squirrel gradually form a passionate bond in the heat of summer. 

Today’s story is “The Squirrel Next Door” by Field T. Mouse. You can find more of his stories at squirrel.sofurry.com.

Today’s story will be read for you by Kergiby, a full-time panther.

Today I'm reading an adult story for mature listeners.

If that's not your cup of tea,

or if there are youngsters listening,

you can skip this one

and I'll have a new story for you next time.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog,

and Today’s story is

“The Squirrel Next Door”

by Field T. Mouse.

You can find more of his stories at squirrel.sofurry.com.

Today’s story will be read for you by Kergiby,

a full-time panther.

“The Squirrel Next Door”

by Field T. Mouse

Arms crossed, Emerson surveyed a field of wheat.

In the late-afternoon light,

the flat, golden vista bore a similar hue to his fur.

The harvest mouse closed his blue eyes,

listening to the crop rustle and sway

in the breeze. Is this what the ocean sounds like?

Emerson had never been to the sea.

Eyes reopening, the mouse focused on the practical,

the here and now.

Grounded, low-key,

responsible. That was him.

Everyone said so.

Venturing to the edge of the field,

Emerson ran a furless, pink paw through a cluster of spiky wheat

-heads. Encircling one with his fingers, he yanked.

It came off easily,

bringing the stiff stalk with it.

He broke the head off the stalk and rolled the grains between both of his paws,

freeing the seeds.

Letting the breeze carry the debris away,

he popped a few into his mouth.

Emerson chewed, tilting his head.

Too soft. Which meant moisture.

It had to be tested under fifteen percent or his payment would get docked.

The short-range forecast called for sun and intense heat.

Five more days? A week?

That would do it.

Tossing the remaining seeds, Emerson walked back to his farmhouse.

He lived alone. With bright blue siding and sunflower shutters,

the one-story building was the definition of quaint and cozy.

A white, wooden fence-line separated his property from the neighbors.

Two older squirrels.

Fox squirrels. An especially incorrigible type of squirrel.

But then, squirrels were always instigators, weren’t they?

Compared to mice.

Emerson spotted one of them.

Well, not them, exactly.

One of their younger relations.

Their niece. She was driving a blue, cab-less tractor back and forth across the open land, kicking up clouds of dust.

Hay dust. Alfalfa.

A red rake was being pulled behind the tractor, inverting the windrows,

distinct lines of cut foliage

neatly aligned for easier baling.

By rotating them,

the rows would dry more evenly.

Even from this distance, Emerson noticed the way her body bounced.

I don’t think she’s wearing anything beneath that shirt …

His attention strayed to her tail.

How could it be missed?

Fluttering in the sun, it glowed like a warm mixture of cinnamon and sugar,

delectably— The harvest mouse cleared his throat and shook his head.

Stop wasting time.

There were things to do.

Always. But as he reached his front door and turned the knob,

the mouse stopped and sighed,

remembering when he’d met her a few weeks back …

“I’m Charlie,” the squirrel said unbidden,

gnawing on a steamed ear of bi-colored sweet corn.

White and yellow kernels tumbled off her whiskers

onto the lush, summer grass.

Seated on a folding chair at a square card table, she peered at the mouse,

deep blue eyes sparkling from sunlight or mischief.

Maybe both. Her denim shorts were frayed.

A short-sleeve t-shirt, flannel and plaid, was missing the top button.

She looked vaguely familiar.

Emerson, holding a plate of food,

debated whether to sit across from her.

Most of the other tables were full

and she had several empty chairs around her.

But she’s a talker.

I can tell. Aside from the awkwardness of having to make conversation in the first place,

Emerson couldn’t exactly make a quick exit

(which was his plan) if he was roped into one. The harvest mouse was at the neighbors’ house.

They were having

another cookout. The fox squirrels were total extroverts, loving company, socializing,

eye contact. Weird stuff like that.

Emerson was always too polite to decline their invitations.

I live next door. They know I’m home.

Not to mention I’m a terrible liar.

Wasn’t he obligated?

He’d usually show up and nibble on something,

wall-flowering on the periphery before discreetly leaving.

Fifteen minutes, tops.

Usually satisfied them.

“I don’t bite, if that’s what you’re wondering,”

Charlie said, when Emerson didn’t acknowledge her.

Finished with her ear of corn, she set it down on paper plate and leaned back.

“I wasn’t wondering anything,”

the mouse replied.

“More like ‘wandering,’ eh?

Just sit down already.”

Emerson nodded, resigned to doing so.

He pulled out a folding chair.

Charlie leaned forward,

elbows on the table.

“Real name’s Charlene.

Kinda stuffy, isn’t it?”

“I guess?” Fully seated,

Emerson scooted his chair closer to the table.

“Well, it is, so you better not use it on me!”

Charlie sat up straight.

Even sitting down, she was taller than the mouse.

By a few inches. Not as slender, either.

A solid, sturdy build.

“I don’t wanna have to beat you up.”

Emerson’s whiskers twitched, knowing she probably could. The squirrel giggled, indicating she was teasing.

His ears swiveled.

Something about her voice.

She had an accent, didn’t she?

Wasn’t local. Charlie, seeing his curious expression, said,

“I’m from Ontario.”

A pause. “That’s in Canada.”

“I know where it is,” he insisted.

“Impressive! For an American,”

she said with a smirk.

“Do I get a prize?”

“I’ll think of something.

What do you want?”

“Nothing.” “Then why’d you ask?”

Emerson shook his head, not knowing.

His cheeks got hot.

Eyes avoiding hers,

he took a sip of lemonade.

Charlie flashed an easy, bucktoothed smile.

“Relax, mouse-o.” “This is as relaxed as I get,” he said.

“You sure? Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”

“Didn’t know it was a skill.”

“Depends on how you grew up, eh?

Now, you, I bet you grew up in a strict household.

Do your chores. Eat your vegetables.”

She made a ‘so on, so on’ gesture with her paw.

“So, you’ve gotta learn from scratch.

But don’t worry.” She stretched her arms above her head.

“I can teach you.” “Are you certified?”

Charlie giggled again,

arms lowering back to the table.

“You know … it’s customary in most societies to tell a person your name after they’ve told you theirs.”

“Oh. I’m Emerson,”

the mouse mumbled,

poking at his food with a plastic fork.

Corn casserole, green beans.

Chunks of cantaloupe.

A wheat roll. “Really?

Very distinguished!”

She paused and added,

“Formal, though. Don’t you think?”

“Um … ” “We’re in the same boat.”

“I guess,” Emerson said again.

“Got a nickname?” “No.”

“What?” Charlie quirked a brow in surprise.

“Am I supposed to?”

“Yes!” “Why?” “Because! I don’t make the rules.”

“I see. You just enforce them?”

“I’m gonna have to give you a nickname, myself,”

Charlie decided. Emerson just continued eating his meal, hoping she’d lose interest.

She didn’t. “Let’s see …

not an easy name to switch up, is it?”

The squirrel drummed her claw-tips on the tabletop. “Mm …

oh! How ‘bout Emmo?”

Answering herself, she said, “Nah. Can’t be a mouse-o called Emmo.

That’s just silly.”

Even as a passive participant here,

Emerson could admit her enthusiasm was appealing.

She seemed to have an

endless well of energy.

“I got it! Emmy.” “Emmy?”

Emerson repeated.

“Yeah, it’s cute.” “Is it?”

“Just try it on. See if it fits.”

“What’s the return policy?”

“Consider it a freebie.”

Emerson nodded, unsure what else to say on the matter.

“I thought ‘quiet as a mouse’ was just a saying,”

Charlie observed, studying him with a careful squint.

She made a chittering noise.

“I am a mouse, yes,” he confirmed.

“And shy,” she added.

“And … yes.” His whiskers twitched.

“And you’re not.” “You know what happens when two opposing elements meet, don’t you?”

She rubbed her paws together, as if trying to communicate something.

Emerson wondered if that was a flirtatious remark?

“They attract,” Charlie eventually confirmed.

Emerson didn’t have anything to add.

Charlie squinted at him.

“You’re not going to scare me off with this ‘anti-social’ routine.”

“It’s not a routine,” he insisted.

“That’s what all the blushy boys say.”

“I’m just … introverted.”

The mouse studied the ice in his now-empty plastic cup.

“Always have been.”

“What’s the difference between shy and introverted?”

Charlie wondered.

Emerson took a deep breath.

“Well, um … ‘shy’ is, like, being timid

and nervous.” “Okay.”

“‘Introversion’,” he continued,

“is preferring solitude to company.” “You know what

those sound like?”

“What?” “Excuses.” Emerson twitched.

“If you didn’t want company,

why are you at this shindig?”

Charlie pressed. “Because,” the mouse said stubbornly.

“Cause you’re too polite?

That’s it, isn’t it?

Mice are so adorable when they dig in,”

Charlie announced, pressing her paws on her cheeks at the preciousness.

“Go on. Keep being difficult.”

“I’m not difficult.”

The mouse nibbled the edges of a wheat roll.

If anything, he was the opposite.

He was a responsibility hoarder.

Putting his roll down on his plate, he said,

“Everyone thinks it’s cute to be shy … ”

“I mean, it’s not not cute,”

the squirrel insisted.

“Sometimes, it’s like a mountain towering above me.

Can I scale it? Sure. Depending on the weather on the way up.

But it takes a lot of time and energy,

and I’m too exhausted when I get to the top to enjoy the view.” Charlie didn’t

interrupt, so Emerson continued,

“When I was younger, everyone told me I’d

‘grow out of it.’ That I just needed to put myself in social situations more, and …

you know, it’d go away.”

Emerson paused, shrugging.

“Never did. It just got

more … ” “Awkward?” Charlie said.

Emerson blinked. He nodded slowly.

“I get it,” the squirrel affirmed softly.

“Which part?” he asked defensively.

“Believing yourself to be ungainly.”

She skipped a beat, adding,

“And wondering if everything else thinks the same

thing.” Emerson’s expression softened.

He also suddenly realized why she’d seemed so familiar.

“You’re part of the family, aren’t you?”

“Yup!” She smiled at him,

buckteeth showing.

“This is my aunt and uncle’s farm.”

“Ah.” “Stayin’ with ‘em for …

the whole summer,

maybe longer? I dunno. We’ll see.”

He tail flagged about.

“They’re getting’ older, don’t have kids,

and need some help. I’m at a loose end and grew up on a farm, but …

parents sold it, y’know?”

She paused, brow furrowing.

“Hard to make it as a family farm these days.”

Emerson knew full well.

“You run solo?” Charlie asked, tilting her head.

“Solo? Oh. You mean …

well, I have a lot of relatives in the area.

Cousins. We help each other out. Share equipment. But,

uh … yeah, I guess.” “You sure guess a lot,”

the squirrel teased.

Emerson almost said ‘I guess’ to that but caught himself just in time.

Charlie giggled. After a moment, she asked softly,

“Hey. Wanna blow this popsicle stand?

Go for a walk, maybe?”

The mouse, instantly self-conscious at the idea,

juggled the possibilities in his head.

A walk? With her? Just the two of them?

Where? For how long? What would they talk about?

“Come on,” the squirrel goaded.

“It’d get you away from the crowd. You can show me around, tell me about …

you know, whatever.” “Well,

that’s … I mean,

thanks for the offer. But I don’t have much to talk about.”

“We’ve been talking for the past ten minutes,”

the squirrel said. “Yeah, but …

I should be getting home.”

The mouse took a deep breath and stood up,

grabbing his empty plate and cup.

“I can practically see your house from here,” Charlie continued

plainly, remaining seated.

She gestured toward his property.

“It can’t wait a while?”

“I’m … no, I’m afraid not,”

Emerson said, nearly tripping as he moved away from the table,

as if caught up in his own lie.

He blushed. “It was nice meeting you, though.”

“It’s okay to admit you’re lonely,”

Charlie called after him.

Emerson paused, his back to her.

“I don’t know anyone here. Except the family.

You know how bad rural folks are at embracing outsiders … ”

Emerson turned around, feeling a sharp, internal pang.

Who said I’m lonely?

I’m not lonely … Regardless, he couldn’t bring himself to accept her invitation.

It was like a mental block. He just opened his mouth and stammered,

“I … I, uh … ” He pointed at his house with his tail.

“I gotta go.” Charlie forced a smile.

“M’kay. Well.” Emerson could tell his rejection had hurt her.

“We’ll bump into each other again.

After all, we’re neighbors, now.”

Presently, a few days after checking the status of his wheat,

Emerson was in town,

at the end of Main Street

in the parking lot of

the general store.

In his usual attire,

jeans and a t-shirt,

the mouse transferred plastic shopping bags

from a metal cart

and set them into the exposed bed of his weathered pickup truck.

“Emmy!” His dishy ears swiveled.

Charlie. The harvest mouse turned to see the fox squirrel skipping across the street.

No traffic in sight.

This was a sleepy ‘no stoplight’ town,

less than a thousand people.

Even sleepier on a Sunday afternoon like this.

“What you doin’, neighbor?”

Charlie panted breathlessly,

already beside him.

She peered into the back of his truck.

“Groceries?” Emerson nodded,

turning to wheel his shopping cart back to the storefront.

Charlie followed him.

“You going home already?”

“Yeah.” “Maybe you could help me out, hmm?”

“With what?” Securing the cart by the front entrance,

he looked Charlie in the eyes.

They were like sapphires.

“Well, aunt and uncle sent me into town to bring back pizza. Only, I don’t know where the place is at.

I parked down there—” She pointed.

“But it’s closed.” Emerson squinted, following her gesture.

“Oh. That’s the historical society. It used to a pizza place, way back when.

They left part of the signage in the window. For posterity or something.

You’re looking for ‘Village Pizza.’

It’s not on Main. Two blocks over. Ohio.

By the new library. Well, ‘new’

as in ten years old,

but we had the old library for over a hundred years before that.” “Ohhh …

okay. Right!” The squirrel paused, bouncing on the tips of her foot-paws.

She giggled. “And you said you didn’t have anything to talk about.”

The mouse blushed.

“It’s just … you know.

Trivia. Empty calories.”

His gaze flitted up and down the squirrel’s figure.

She had overalls on today.

The blue straps threatened to slide off her shoulders at any moment.

“I love junk food,” she responded.

“Why do you think I’m going for pizza?”

Emerson smiled lightly.

“I guess.” “I knew you’d say that,”

she countered. “Right. Well, I should get—”

The mouse made a move, trying to get past the squirrel and back to the truck.

She shadowed him, causing him to bump into her.

They made full-frontal contact.

He squeaked! Ears blushed profusely.

“Sorry.” “For what?” Charlie said with amusement.

He pointed at his truck with his prehensile, ropy tail, taking a deep, flustered breath.

“I, uh—” “Owe me a walk?

I know.” Emerson, taking a deep breath,

realized he wasn’t gonna be able to get away this time.

“It’ll take, what, fifteen minutes?

Come on. Unless you have ice cream in those shopping bags.

Then it’ll melt.” “I don’t eat ice cream,”

he said. “Well, that’s no fun.”

Charlie squinted.

“I would’ve pegged you as someone who did!”

Emerson shook his head.

“But you do eat pizza?

And breadsticks? I’ll let you have some,” she promised in a singsong tone.

“I’m not really hungry right now,”

he said, continuing to make excuses.

The ability to deflect another’s interest was almost a reflex. He couldn’t stop.

He was aware he was doing it, but it was like watching himself from outside his own body,

helpless to correct the behavior.

Charlie was undeterred.

“Is it because you don’t like cheese?

Is that your horrible mouse secret?”

Emerson smiled again, more fully this time.

“You know, you would’ve already been to the pizza place

—and back—if you weren’t hassling me.”

“Then how would I have managed to spend more time with you?”

the squirrel countered smoothly.

The mouse demurely dipped his chin.

A minute later, they were both walking down the sidewalk together.

Lawnmower sounds echoed as yards were tended to.

A screen door slapped shut.

Children at play shrieked joyously a block away

while tiny airplanes propelled overhead.

Someone had a radio on,

loudly, set on an auto race.

Neither of the meandering rodents said anything at first.

Charlie made an impulsive motion to touch his furless, pink paw,

as if to hold it,

but Emerson kept it just out of reach.

The squirrel retracted hers,

a brief look of vulnerability on her face.

The golden mouse cleared his throat and broke the silence.

“What, uh … what do you think of this place? You’ve been here for a month, now.”

“The town or … ” She gestured at the horizon.

“In general?” When he didn’t answer, she continued,

“Thinking about how hot it is.

How humid.” “Summers are like that in the Midwest.”

“I prefer winter to summer,” Charlie admitted.

“But fall is the ideal, really.

Perfect mix of the two.”

“Winter?” Emerson echoed, shivering at the very thought.

“That’s probably because you have a furred tail.

I have to wear a thermal tail-sock when it gets too cold.”

“Oh, my gosh, those things are

adorable!” Emerson smiled and shook his head.

“They’re silly.” “Silly

awesome. What’s yours look like?

I bet it’s some bright neon color,

or maybe a wacky tie-dye design,” she ribbed.

“It’s glow-in-the-dark, isn’t it?”

“You sure know me,”

Emerson said lightly.

The squirrel laughed.

“No, I wear the flesh-colored ones. So it looks like I don’t have one on.”

“Boo. Can’t make a statement that way,”

Charlie said, giving him a harmless elbow to the side.

Emerson squeaked,

wriggling a bit and shaking his head as if to say

‘oh, well.’ “It’s not even the temperature, though,” Charlie continued. “I mean, I like warm, sunny days. It’s just … things get so busy in the summer and fall, eh? When you’re a farmer.

You’re so tied to the land. When it goes dormant, you finally can, too.

Winter is a chance to breathe.

You’d go insane without it.”

“Yeah, but there’s less freedom of movement.

Fewer things you can do. It’s so dark and cold and—”

He almost said ‘lonely’ but stopped himself.

“I’d rather feel productive.

productive.” “That’s cause you’re a work-a-holic,”

Charlie said. Emerson’s whiskers twitched.

He pointed across the road.

Village Pizza. “We can, uh, cross here,” he said.

“Saw you’ve got a combine in your yard, now,”

the squirrel said, changing the subject.

“Fancy.” “Yup.” “Assume you didn’t buy it.”

“Yeah, no. Way above my income.

It’s a cousin’s. My wheat field is ready to harvest.”

“Looked about the right color, I thought,” Charlie said with a nod. “You gonna make

straw out of what’s left?”

“Course.” “You’ll need help.”

“I’ll find someone.”

“I can drive a tractor, you know!”

Charlie offered cheerily.

“Yeah, I’ve, uh … I’ve seen.”

Emerson swallowed.

The squirrel grinned.

“That settles it, then!”

She reached the door to the pizza place,

pulling it open. A bell chimed.

Emerson sighed, following her inside.

Well. He did need the help …

Days later, Emerson stood on a moving rickety wooden wagon behind a tractor and baler,

as if atop the caboose of a train.

The mouse bent his knees, ropy, prehensile tail whipping every which way

to enhance his balance

as Charlie enthusiastically spun the wheel

and turned the whole lineup around.

She flashed him a ‘thumbs up’ as she did so.

The squirrel was having a little too much fun up there.

Emerson didn’t signal back.

Keeping upright, the harvest mouse rushed forward to grab a straw bale before it left the baler’s rear chute

and fell to the ground.

He snagged the twine just in time,

using one arm to lift it to his hips.

Knowing he’d miss the next one if he left,

he waited and grabbed the other simultaneously.

One bale in each arm.

He definitely would’ve thrown out his back if he’d tried that with alfalfa or grass,

but dried grain stalks were much lighter.

Shuffling to the back of the wagon in a cloud of dust, Emerson stacked them both,

kicking and pushing them to make sure they were snugly aligned.

There was a strategy to stacking.

His was simple: one bale facing forward,

four perpendicular to the first.

Five in all. And then you reversed the order the next layer up.

He could only go four layers high.

A hundred bales per wagon. They’d

already finished one,

parking it by the barn.

This was the second and,

thankfully, last. After harvesting the grain,

he’d round baled most of the chaff.

Orchards and ‘agri-tainment’ places were always wanting big round bales to festively decorate with in the fall.

Garden places were more interested in the smaller squares.

Emerson kept stacking.

His whiskers wilted.

It was hot. With a capital H.

There were some clouds in the sky.

Big, fluffy ones, lazy islands on an inverted sea.

But, unfortunately for him,

they were in no rush to get in the sun’s way.

He’d generously applied sunscreen to his ears and tail before they’d started.

Charlie had giggled as he’d done so …

“You’re so delicate!” she said, clasping her brownish-grey paws together.

Everything ‘mousey’ was somehow adorable to her.

“Feels like a liability,”

Emerson insisted.

“Your tail?” “Not to mention boring.

Yours is more eye-catching.”

And, he imagined, more fun to …

well. More fun. “You don’t appreciate how low-maintenance your tail is,” Charlie said.

“Mice have ‘tails-to-go.’ Wake up and you’re done.

Boom. Sure, you gotta protect from sun and cold, but that’s it. You know

how long I gotta spend grooming this thing every morning?

Do you think squirrels just hop out of bed with tails this good?”

“Well … ” The squirrel fluffed her bushy appendage for show, continuing,

“And you know what happens when it gets wet or matted

or picks up those sticky-burrs in the woods?

Not so pretty then.

then.” “It’s pretty now, though,” Emerson said.

Charlie beamed. Emerson, realizing what he’d said, felt his temperature spike.

He stammered, “I mean,

um … compared to mine.”

“Yours is prehensile, isn’t it?”

Her voice took on a flirty tone.

“Bet that comes in handy … ”

Emerson shyly rubbed at his neck.

“Can’t beat the simple, clean aesthetic of a mouse tail, though,” she told him,

miming a ‘chef’s kiss’ gesture.

“A direct, defined sightline that leads the eyes right up to that pert—”

“Okay. Um. The key’s already in the tractor,” Emerson interrupted, trying to focus.

“We should get started.”

“How much horsepower does it have?”

the squirrel asked, letting him off the hook.

For now. “Horsepower?

Why?” “No reason.” As Charlie drove like she was trying to qualify for the Indy 500,

Emerson wriggled out of his t-shirt.

There was no thought to it. He yanked it off and stuffed it in his pocket.

The white of his chest and belly offered a confectionary contrast to his golden limbs, head, and backside.

Butterscotch and cream.

Emerson grabbed another bale,

flexing and tossing it over his head to the fourth row up,

jumping up to punch it into the right slot.

When the mouse turned to go back to the baler,

he noticed it wasn’t churning anything out.

It was missing the row entirely!

He frantically waved his arms at Charlie, trying to get her attention.

Gawking at the mouse in the mirrors, she finally snapped out of it,

jumping up in her seat and turning the wheel to get them back on course.

When they were done,

Emerson slumped against the outside of the barn.

The side away from the sun, in the cool, delicious shade.

He guzzled from a canteen of ice water.

Stray droplets clung to his whisker

-tips. “That only took an hour,”

Charlie said. “Only,”

Emerson panted. “Not bad, though. Right?” “Mm-hmm.”

Emerson’s bare chest heaved.

Done drinking, he set his canteen down.

Charlie’s eyes flitted over his lithe body.

“Mm. So.” She lost her train of thought before asking,

“We gotta deliver this stuff?”

“The squares? Yeah, but … ”

The mouse ran a paw through his head-fur.

“Tomorrow? Not today.

Round bales I’ll deliver in August.”

“Need my help? Tomorrow, I mean?”

“They have people to unload the wagons once I get them there.”

Emerson gazed out at the empty wheat field.

“Gotta plow that up, now. Plant something else.

It was annual wheat, so that’s the only cutting I’m getting out of it.” “Mm-hmm,”

the squirrel echoed

distractedly. “Plowing, eh?”

Emerson’s eyes locked with hers.

“I’m thirsty,” the squirrel said,

almost whispering it.

“My, uh … my canteen’s empty,” Emerson replied, feeling his ears flush with blood.

“Can I drink from that?”

Charlie asked, pointing to a red, metal spigot at the corner of the barn.

A short, green garden hose was attached to it.

“Sure. If you want. It’s just unfiltered well water.”

The squirrel went to get some,

and Emerson was incredibly conscious of how she moved.

The undulations of her curves.

The cadence of her hips.

The mouse watched as Charlie gripped the handle and slowly tugged it upward,

picking up the end of the hose with her other paw.

She put it close to her lips as the water arced out.

Emerson couldn’t avert his gaze.

“What are you looking at?” Charlie teased, spontaneously turning the hose on him.

Her thumb over the opening, she sprayed him with a strong, cold arc of clear water.

“Noth—” Emerson squeaked, his words cut off by the spray.

“You look like you need cooling off,” she insisted, not letting up.

“Eek! Hey!” Laughing, the mouse shielded his eyes with his paws and used his tail to snatch the hose away from her.

“No fair, that’s cheating!” she exclaimed.

“Says who?” he went, spraying her at point-blank range. “Ah! H

-hah! Stop it … oh,

my gosh, how’s it’s so cold!”

The bigger squirrel backtracked to the spigot and turned it off.

Emerson followed her and tried to turn it back on.

“Don’t you dare!” They giggled and wrestled with the hose.

When it slipped to the ground, they began wrestling each other.

Paws grabbed and groped.

Bodies pressed together.

It happened so fast.

Charlie dropped her pants first. Emerson followed, jeans collecting around his ankles.

The squirrel kicked hers off completely.

Panties, too. She was in too much of a rush to think about her shirt.

It remained on as she leaned back against the side of the barn,

lifting a leg. The mouse, completely

naked, leaned into her,

paws gripping her rump, letting her lift the other leg.

She wrapped them both around his hips,

arms hugging his neck.

She was completely off the ground as he held her up.

Emerson didn’t remember entering her.

The desire and lust, the need for her, for this, was so intense.

So urgent. It wasn’t until he looked down and saw his thick pink shaft

glistening with her wetness,

disappearing into her body

with a slick, upward slap,

that he fully comprehended the threshold they had crossed.

But by then it was too late for his addled mind to dissuade his willing body.

Charlie started rubbing at her clit,

urging him on. “Yes …

yes, like that.” She chittered happily,

arching between his body at the wooden wall.

Her water-logged tail flicked sporadically. “Uh-huh … ”

Emerson leaned into her with all his weight,

keeping her pinned to the red barn.

They scraped off some paint as he humped her with abandon.

Charlie eventually gasped and tossed her head back.

Her sex clenched around him, in spasms.

She barked as she came.

Emerson went a bit longer before hilting inside her, trembling,

hardly able to feel his extremities.

His whole body tingled, begging him to succumb to his instincts.

And to her. And, oh, he did.

His shaft jumped and jerked, pulsing as he filled her passage with his seed.

His heart raced. Ears burned.

He cried out, squeaking in high, desperate pitches.

Charlie panted on his cheek,

nibble-kissing down to his shoulder.

Emerson huffed, blinking, trying to regain his focus.

Lifting her head and touching her nose to his, she murmured,

“Relaxed yet, Emmy?” The mouse smiled helplessly,

light with afterglow.

“I might be getting there.”

“Progress! We should patent this amazing cure.”

“I think we’re a billion years too late,” he replied,

gently pulling out of her and

letting her foot-paws lower to the grass.

“It’s public domain.”

Charlie giggled, wrapping the tip of his ropy tail around her fingers.

“So, um … does this mean—”

“That I have a new boyfriend?

And he happens to live next door?”

She pulled her shorts up, zipping them shut.

“You tell me.” Emerson, still completely naked,

nodded emphatically

and kissed her again.

On the lips, whiskers tangling.

He almost melted on the spot.

Maybe I need to be sprayed down again.

They pulled apart with a smack.

“Was that a yes?” she murmured playfully.

“You’re incorrigible,”

the mouse accused.

The squirrel didn’t deny it.

“Emmy?” “Yes, Charlie?”

“You should probably put your clothes back on.”

The squirrel traced a finger down his bare chest.

“Right,” he echoed, blushing as he wriggled back into his clothes.

They were still soaked from the hose.

“I hope no one saw us from the road … ”

“I didn’t hear anyone go by,”

Charlie replied, not at all worried.

“Well, you were being kind of vocal.”

“You should take that as a compliment,”

she said smoothly.

Emerson whispered innocently,

“I didn’t even know squirrels could make some of those sounds.”

“You were noisier than me, mouse-o.”

“What? No … ” Charlie grinned, changing the subject.

“We could do with a shower.

And a bite to eat.

Maybe a nap?” The mouse looked over his shoulder, to his house.

Then back to her.

“Wanna go inside?” “You sure you don’t have more work to do?”

Emerson shook his head and took Charlie’s paws in his.

For the first time he could remember,

the mouse felt comfortable saying,

“It can wait.” This was

“The Squirrel Next Door” by Field T. Mouse,

read for you by Kergiby,

a full-time panther.

You can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,

or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.