Around the World -------------------- In which you board the Orient Express and quickly find yourself involved with a lively white mouse girl. -------------------- Paris, Winter 1912 >A gentle evening snow is falling. You can see it drifting down onto the steel bracketed windows of the Gare du Nord’s sloping roof >You’re standing before a train, watching as your luggage is fussed over by a brightly jacketed railway attendant >The platform ahead of you is abuzz with activity, resin soled shoes clicking busily across the concrete and cream colored tile. You can see shoe marks and paw prints alike drawn in snow melt and traces of dirt >You haven’t been in Europe for long but so far it’s struck you as not too dissimilar to a place like Washington D.C. or even New York >Still, there’s a certain thrill to bumbling around, trying to communicate with what broken scraps of French you can remember from school >You’re just fortunate you weren’t late >Directly in front of you, grand and gleaming, traced with cheerful wreaths of white steam, is the Orient Express >It’s supposed to be a very famous train, its route winding all the way from the spot you stand to the grand old city of Constantinople >Or…Istanbul if you’re a Turk >Your tickets are first class and though you’ve already showed them once to even be admitted to this platform, you still hold onto them very tightly >Perhaps they’ll make nice keepsakes one day >Shifting in place, you check your pocket-watch, a gift from the Assistant Attorney General >It’s two minutes until six. Soon enough they’ll be calling for passengers to board >Almost before that thought can be completed there comes the shrill blast of a steam whistle and attendants in crisp red jackets appear at the doors, ready to check tickets once more >A call comes in French, echoing along the platform, then is almost begrudgingly repeated in English >They’re calling for first class passengers, which happily includes you >You join in a neat and rapidly forming line, pausing to allow a pair of ladies to stand in front of you, as is polite >The first lady is a tabby cat, prim and rigid in her posture. She doesn’t look sour exactly, there’s no dissatisfaction on her face, but you can’t read her eyes. It’s like you’re looking at a fur covered automata >Her companion, a white furred mouse, is a bit more lively, working to haul a red linen carpetbag along >Whatever’s in the carpetbag is clearly heavy, for it’s dragging the poor mouse visibly to one side, like a distressed ship listing as it takes on water >The cat presents her ticket, and presumably that of the mouse as well, then steps onto the train. If you had to guess then you’d say the mouse was a handmaid of some description, the cat her mistress >You show your own ticket and step forward to where the mouse is eyeing the short trip up the train’s steps like a climber surveying a tricky mountain slope “Would you like any help with that?” You ask, as gently as you can >The mouse starts in place, then stares up at you, which takes some effort since she can’t be more than four feet tall >Her eyes are a shockingly intense shade of blue and you can see an embarrassed sort of surprise fading into a meek little smile as she holds the carpetbag close, arms trembling with the effort “Oh, I couldn’t,” she attempts to demur, betraying a very south English accent , “this belongs to my mistress and…” “Just up the steps,” you say, undeterred, “I wont leave your sight for a moment, I promise.” >Giving the short climb up the steps another look, the mouse offers out the carpetbag but, to your surprise, keeps ahold of it. You end up having to stoop over just a bit, helping her carry it up the stairs >It really is quite weighty…you have to wonder what it contains >Even in your awkward position you can’t help but be distracted by the interior of the Orient Express as you step inside >The walls are paneled with varnished wood, crushed velvet drapes flanking each window. It would seem that you’ve boarded adjacent to the smoking lounge, for you can smell a tang of pipe tobacco and the sharper scent of cigarette smoke >Above you, glowing serenely, you can see electric lights shielded with amber hued glass. It affords the train a warm, almost shadowy glow, like you’ve just stepped into an old oil painting >The mouse joins you in the train and you both step quickly aside in order to avoid blocking up the corridor. Reclaiming the carpetbag, the mouse lets out a breath, quietly exerted “Thank you, Mr…?” She asks >You introduce yourself and, out of habit, offer a hand to shake >Though that isn’t great social etiquette, the mouse still bravely accepts, her smaller paw almost disappearing in your hand. You can feel the tiny prickle of her claws digging into your palm “My name is Libby, it was nice to meet you.” The mouse says. >Before she can speak further the cat is at her shoulder, as though she’s manifested from thin air “Thank you for assisting my valet,” the cat says, fetching you with a green eyed and perfectly impenetrable gaze, “that was very kind of you.” >You’re still a little surprised by how suddenly the cat appeared but you still manage to smile and nod >Though…isn’t a valet a male servant employed by a male master? >Before you have time to ask the cat has turned and Libby hesitates, caught between you and her retreating mistress >She almost looks like she wants to say something more, but it only takes her a moment to choose her duty over any further social calls, which you suppose is admirable >Her tail, covered with velvety white fur and with a fuzzy plume of the stuff at the tip, brushes against your wrist as she departs >It’s incredibly soft >You aren’t exactly well versed on your various mouse species, but suppose that a furred tail as opposed to a naked one would make her some variety of jumping mouse >Not that it matters… >Still, as you proceed you find yourself following Libby and her mistress (…who never introduced herself, come to think of it) down the corridor of the next two cars, over lovely Ottoman style carpet and polished wooden flooring >It would seem that they, like you, are situated towards the very front of the train >When the cat halts and allows her valet to unlock her berth for her, you’re unsurprised to find that you’re going to be neighbors with her >It’s an odd thing, you think, how the people you meet first in a strange situation often play such a large role in the entirety of the scenario >Still, if the cat and her servant mouse are to orbit around your trip, you suppose there are worse bedfellows to have >The mouse seems nice, even if her mistress has the presence and demeanor of an especially polite Easter Island idol >Dispelling further thoughts for the moment, you look over your berth and can’t help but be delighted by its economical confines >There’s a bed to your immediate right, clearly meant for a single person, with an upper bunk that can be folded down to accommodate a second person. Near to the window, through which you can see the second class passengers beginning to board, is a small desk for writing, working and taking meals, while a door on the leftmost wall presumably links you to the neighboring berth >Experimentally, you test the lock and find that it holds firm >Depositing your things, you sit down upon the bed and find it firm and comfortable, the pillow soft and the bedding clean and well ironed >Even the drapes are perfectly arranged, and when you turn the lights on they come on at once, with nary a flicker >Peering out your berth’s window, out into the open, steam traced space of the Gare du Nord, you can see the yellowy glow of the Parisian lights outlining the snow as it trickles down atop the station roof >You hope the train wont get stuck passing through Austria-Hungary, or the northern reaches of the Ottoman Empire >You’d like to see Constantinople…or Istanbul, whichever it is, sooner rather than later >After that you’re undecided. You have plenty of money, a functioning passport and citizenship to a country that nobody really dislikes. It’s an excellent incentive to travel, and you most certainly have some free time to kill >Moving off the bed, you settle at the window-side desk and listen to the train staff pace the halls, knocking at berth doors and asking that everyone sit down and be still >The train is about to start moving >When it does you feel the Orient Express jolt under you, hard enough to sway the drapes in place, but as the train picks up speed and you leave the station behind, you feel the ride smoothing until all that remains is a gentle and very regular rocking >Snow whips past the window in swirls and bursts and for a time you simply sit still and watch the lights of Paris fly back like a collection of fiery golden stars >It’s not until a while later that you come across the official train timetable and Orient Express schedule, tucked against one side of your pillow. It shows the availability of train services, the dining car menus for the several days that the trip from Paris to Constantinople (or Istanbul) will take, and the wine and liquor selections available to be ordered to specific berths >You decide to pass on the wine selection for the moment and instead step outside, locking your berth behind you >The corridor isn’t quite crowded, but there is a steady and very amiable hum of passenger traffic. It’s comfortingly cosmopolitan, people of many countries and species mingling without issue, a dozen languages being spoken even in the short stretch before you emerge into the dining room >You still aren’t entirely sure of the train’s layout yet, but the dining car seems to be set in the Orient Express’ rough middle. It’s wide and open, already a few small parties settled into tables or booths, awaiting supper >You sit down at a window-side booth and take a closer look at the menu. There are no prices, for meals are included with fare, as is a complimentary foil wrapped cigar, which a fox waiter in a crimson Orient Express uniform presents to you with a flourish “Cuban.” He says, and you suppose that’s a pronouncement of quality >You don’t smoke but you do still tuck the cigar away. It’s always handy to have such items on hand, just in case you run into people who need to be impressed or quelled >One of many things you learned while working in Washington >You doubt there’ll be so many interactions of that type aboard the Orient Express, but it’s always good to be prepared >You’re just settling into the menu, perusing the supper options and quietly wondering what half of the French culinary terms mean when you catch a flash of white and lower your menu to see Libby entering the dining car >She’s clearly brushed her fur and looks a bit less frazzled. Next to her you can see the cat, straight backed and rigid as ever, the very tip of her tail twitching back and forth with all the easy regularity of a metronome needle >The cat spots you immediately and pronounces your name. There’s something clinical about the way she says it, like a birdwatcher spotting a common but still vaguely enjoyable species >You stand and invite them over, hoping you are not overstepping your bounds. You know the English are very fond of the more arcane variants of social etiquette >Fortunately, it would seem you’ve tripped no cultural snares and the two women accept your invitation, Libby moving smoothly ahead to help her mistress into the booth. The cat’s dress fluffs out around her and she has to pat it down, though she does this too with admirable grace “If I may, ma’am,” you say, addressing the cat, “I don’t believe I caught your name the we met earlier, in the corridor.” >The cat nods and though you suspect for just a moment that she might confess to a moment of forgetfulness, she does no such thing “I did not think I would see you again,” she says, “but this is rather a smaller train than I expected. I am Ms. Holly Strand and I thank you again for inviting us to your table.” >You get the sense that Ms. Strand is somewhat insular in her habits and indeed she says nothing more, going to look at her menu instead “And thank you for accepting.” You say >Ms. Strand isn’t exactly hard to talk to, but you find her method of communication almost strangely mechanical, and though you make gentle attempts to ask her if she’s stopping at Istanbul or continuing on, she’s quite tight lipped about her journey “The distance between here and Istanbul is roughly as great as the distance from Istanbul to Tehran,” she says at one point, “though that second stretch does not *feel* as significant as the first. Why do you think that is?” >You think that both stretches of distance sound equally immense but still seek to humor the cat’s question “You are from Europe,” you say with a faint shrug, “so you know Europe better than you know the Near East. There’s more that’s personally relevant between here and Istanbul than there is between Istanbul and Tehran.” >Ms. Strand looks at you for a moment, slightly discomforted “I am from England.” She corrects you quietly, and you get the sense that she only heard the first part of your response >There’s no further talk of geography. Instead Libby shifts in place and clears her throat, a tiny *ahem* “Are you going to Istanbul?” She asks >Ms. Strand gives her a meaningful look and the little mouse immediately tacks your full and proper title and surname onto the end, looking embarrassed “Yes, I am.” You say, watching the mouse’s ears and whiskers twitch almost in unison >You feel a little bad for noticing, but the insides of her ears have turned a gentle but persistent shade of pink >The thought comes, errant and uninvited, that you could reach across the table and stroke one of her round, white furred ears >Fortunately the waiter comes back and distracts you from that notion >It’s at exactly that moment you feel a faint twitchy *something* brush across your shins >If you didn’t know any better you’d think it was Libby’s nervously swishing tail >You manage to order without issue and though you try to salvage your conversation with Ms. Strand, the cat seems distracted, almost wounded. You wonder for a moment if she’s still thinking over your ‘Europe’ remark >You hope you didn’t cause her any offense…though you remain uncertain as to what that possible offense could be >Again you feel the very tip of Libby’s tail twitch against your leg and the mouse squirms as she realizes what she’s done. You pretend not to notice, for the mouse’s sake, and do your very best to be as polite and gentlemanly as possible for the rest of the meal…which is quite delicious “I thank you for sharing this portion of the evening,” Ms. Strand says, almost the very same instant the supper dishes are cleared away, “I shall now retire to the reading car.” >Immediately Libby perks, attention dragged away from you, where it’s more or less rested for the entirety of the dinner “Do you require anything from me, mistress?” She asks >Ms. Strand shakes her head, a single curt motion “Not for the moment.” She says, then is making her exit >Libby settles back into her seat opposite you, the mouse looking just a little uncertain, unsure what to do without her mistress “Dessert?” You ask >Libby looks surprised for a moment, then begins to shake her head “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time…” She says “I liked having dinner with you.” You counter “With Ms. Strand, you mean.” “She’s not the world’s greatest conversationalist.” >Libby blinks, taken by surprise. But though your remark is clearly scandalous, at least to her, you can see the insides of her ears turning a lively pink once more “She’s very particular with what she says.” The mouse allows, displaying an excellent sense of verbal caution herself “Are you traveling across the Near East?” You ask, “is that why she was talking about Tehran?” >For a moment the mouse hesitates, clearly unsure if she ought to say anything, then she gathers herself onto her knees and leans over the table to whisper to you, glancing over her shoulder first >You lean in to listen, rather enjoying the theater of it all “We’re traveling around the world.” The mouse whispers gravely, and there’s nothing but serious intention in her blue eyes, even in the tiny twitches of her little pink nose “Like the Verne novel.” You say before you can stop yourself >Immediately Libby nods enthusiastically, the two of you remaining leaned over the table, practically nose to nose, like fond conspirators “Exactly!” She says, voice rising to an excited squeak, “oh, it’s such madness…but I can’t help but be just a little excited.” “Is there much money at stake?” You ask “There must be,” Libby says, “otherwise I don’t know why my mistress would go on such a long and taxing journey. She was always so happy in London until…just now, really.” “Just now?” >Libby gives you a sheepish look “She announced the journey this morning, we did some light shopping to prepare, and then just like that we set off for Paris and the Orient Express.” “She must have been planning this,” you remark, “if she already had tickets for the Orient Express.” >By now the dessert menu has been completely forgotten but you hardly mind >Libby’s brow crinkles, the little mouse deep in thought “You’re right,” she said, “I hadn’t considered that. My mistress is clever, she probably booked passage in advance all the way around the world. I’ll have to ask her for the route, that way I can be of more help.” >You can’t help but smile at her earnestness. It’s cute “Oh, but I’ve been rattling on about myself,” Libby says, breaking eye contact, looking just a little sheepish, “I haven’t asked anything about you or your trip or…I guess I’m not a great conversationalist either.” “Nobody’s great at first,” you reassure the mouse, placing one hand on the table, inviting her to take it, “it just takes practice and self assurance. That’s all.” >Libby hesitates for a moment, then delicately places her paw in your hand. Her eyes are fixed upon it and you can see her nose twitching madly. Again her tail swipes against your legs “Okay,” she says after a moment, big blue eyes turning up to meet yours, “I wanted to ask what you did for work in America.” “It’s kind of similar to your job, actually,” you say, “except I worked for a government official in Washington.” “Worked?” “I resigned. I’m on sabbatical now.” You explain >Libby considers this with something close to confusion, like a person envisioning something fantastical. You suppose she’s probably never been in a position where she could afford to simply stop working “You were a valet?” She asks at last “A chief aide. I gave him papers and kept his appointments…so pretty much the same thing.” >Libby nods slightly, eyes remaining fixed on yours. Again you can feel the very tips of her claws, sharp but not painfully so, as she grips your hand “Was he a good man to work for?” The mouse asks >You nod without hesitation “He was a lot like the President.” “Mr. Taft.” “Yes,” you can’t help but smile, pleased that she knows the name of your commander in chief, “the man I worked for was very honest and meant well, but he had many enemies and they eventually drove him from his office for no well defined reason.” “Is that why you resigned?” >You hesitate for a moment, then simply shrug “That’s part of it. Then, uh, Mr. Taft lost reelection and after that I gave my notice…which I should have done earlier.” >For a moment Libby is very quiet, then she squeezes your hand reassuringly “What’ll you do now?” She asks >Truth be told you’re not sure. For the moment you’re just traveling and trying not to feel unhappy about the terrible political situation back home “I may practice law,” you say, “I cannot say.” All you can do is offer a shrug and a tiny smile “Well…” Libby squirms in place for just a moment, “what are you going to do once you reach Istanbul? Will you continue east or go west back into Europe?” >Again you feel a great swell of uncertainty, but this time Liddy is speaking again before it can take root “…Maybe you could come around the world too.” She says, and though you can see her ears flickering in place, a hint of doubt in the mouse’s eyes as she maybe wonders if she’s been too presumptive, she holds firm “With you and Ms. Strand?” You ask, raising your eyebrows, unsure whether to be amused or confused >For an uncertain moment the mouse is all but frozen, then she manages to nod “…Yes.” She says >Well. >You aren’t sure what to say “I think it would be good for you to do something weird and strange and frantic for a while…before you go back home.” Libby says, and seems emboldened by the state of befuddlement she’s sent you into >You’re still not completely sure if she’s being serious, but there’s a bizarre appeal to the idea that you can’t quite dismiss. The mouse is right, going around the world would certainly distract you from your troubles…if it didn’t kill you in the process “What would Ms. Strand think of this idea?” You ask, managing to find your words >Libby considers for a moment, but it’s like she’s been touched by an electric wire, there’s a new energy to her “Well,” she said, “you’d be an independent observer, like a referee except for…” “Going around the world.” You finish >Behind your eyes your mind is busily clicking away. It’s certainly not 1870 anymore, going around the world has become much easier since Jules Verne’s days…but it’s still no picnic >Especially if the trip is being made overland. From what you remember of the book the main characters spent most of their time at sea >Blinking, you look ahead of yourself at Libby. The mouse is quietly excited, fully on her knees, elbows planted on the table, tail swishing against the back of her seat >Behind her excitement you see something else, a yawning sort of loneliness and uncertainty. If you were in her position you’d certainly appreciate a reassuring and steady presence >But is that presence really you? >Why are you even considering going along with this? >Again you think back to the core things you have. You have money, spare time and a functional passport. That’s all *anyone* needs to get around the world >…So you tell yourself “Well,” you say at last, “we will need to run this past Ms. Strand. I just hope she’s not…” >Before you can say anymore Libby has reached across the table and drawn you into a tight embrace, your face buried in a soft tuft of white fur just over the neck of her dress. Though you’re surprised you don’t tense or try to pull away, even as a part of your mind wonders what the other people in the dining car must be thinking >It’s easy to dismiss all of that. Being hugged feels very, very nice >Libby is warm and soft and you can feel her heart thrumming away like the piston of an overworked engine, the rest of her body trembling along with it >Almost immediately she lets you go, looking sheepish but not at all regretful >The sensation of her fur tingles against your face. The sight of her eyes, full of light, seems to set your mind ablaze “I’m sorry I just grabbed you like that,” Libby says, busily straightening her dress and the mussed fur at her throat and collarbone, “I should have…” >You interrupt her in turn, though you give her enough time to see it coming >Reaching out, you press a pair of fingers beneath the mouse girl’s chin and guide her mouth up as you lean across the table. She blinks, realizing what you’re about to do, then relaxes into it as you kiss her >Silverware rattles as the fronts of Libby’s thighs hit the table and you grip her paws, the mouse gasping into your mouth, surprised all over again as your tongues clash >You long to do more, to lift the mouse onto the table and lay her flat so you can get at every last bit of her, but just in time you remember where you are. Libby seems to as well and you break your kiss >You’ve attracted a few stares, some scandalized, others amused, but fortunately nobody seems grievously offended >Libby tries to say something but her words collapse into an unintelligible heap. She seems stunned, but still her tail twitches and the insides of her ears glow an extravagant pink >Leaning forward, you kiss the tip of the mouse’s nose before you can stop yourself “Should we go somewhere more private?” You whisper into her ear >Libby all but melts, but you can see a near frantic nod emerging as she slips from the booth. Her legs seem to be a little trembly beneath her and when she leans against you, you slide an arm over her shoulders, steadying the little mouse against your side as you step from the dining car >You’d be lying if you tried to say you weren’t similarly effected. You heart is beating faster and there’s a wonderfully high strung sort of anticipatory excitement burning a hole in your center >More than that, you can feel a new tightness in your pants and trying to hurry along to your berth while also acting casual proves to be quite difficult >After a small eternity you’re at the door to your berth, Libby glancing over her shoulder before looking up at you, chin resting against your sternum. She’s pressed almost her entire body against you, content to be close “Oh.” She says faintly, and is suddenly very still >You pause “What?” >Libby giggles to herself “We never got dessert.” She says >You let the door to your berth swing open, then lean down and swoop the little mouse into your arms. She’s surprisingly light and goes along with a surprised cry that turns quickly into more giggles as she buries her face in your chest “No need,” you say, “I’ve got my dessert right here.” >Holy shit is that cheesy >It does make Libby laugh though, and that’s all that matters >The electric lights are still on from earlier and they cast your berth in an amber glow. Settling Libby upon the bed, you watch as the mouse stretches onto her back, breathing hard “Um…” She says >You sit down and kick your shoes off, turning your gaze to the disheveled mouse as you do “If we could go slow…” She starts to say, almost nervously “We will,” you promise, “just tell me what to do.” >Libby seems almost mystified by your words and shuffles into a sitting position, an inviting swathe of chest fluff sticking through the neck of her dress “Kiss me?” She says, voice falling almost into a whisper >You oblige and let the course of actions guide Libby closer until she’s straddling your lap, panting into your mouth. Her dress is puddled around her thighs and when you slide a hand along her thigh, smooth and slow, she shifts to give you better access >You can feel the sleek white cotton of her stockings and then, right at the middle point of her thigh, the beginning of soft white fur >Sliding your hands further, you decide to be bold and grip her firm rear, still safe beneath a frilly pair of bloomers. Libby takes a shivery little breath and once again you find yourself looking into her clear blue eyes as you gently hook your fingers into the hem of her undergarments >She nods and you tug them down, letting the mouse fall onto her back as you leave her bare beneath her dress. Her legs, long and smooth, fall into your lap and you toss her undergarments aside, pushing her legs into a spread, letting her dress fall into a puddle of silken fabric at her waist >There between her legs, nearly hidden by fluffy white fur, you can see Libby’s tiny pink slit, practically swimming with moisture. She watches as you slide your hands along the insides of her thighs, embracing the taut, toned flesh there, letting her velvety fur only enhance the sensation >You get the sense that she’s more or less new to this. Probably not *too* new since she seems to have some grasp of what’s happening, but not nearly experienced enough to have lost her uncertainty regarding what to do >The mouse’s breath comes in fast little huffs as you slide a pair of fingers around the edges of her little slit. The fur there is damp and you can smell her arousal in the air, sharp and almost sweet “Keep going.” She says, voice almost a groan, and you feel her hips buck upwards against your fingers, her tail swishing anxiously against your thighs, that inviting tuft of white fur caressing the front of your pants >Slowly, taking care not to overwhelm the mouse, you slip a single finger into her. >For a moment there’s a slippery, scalding sort of resistance, like your finger may simply glance off of her, then the mouse’s entrance yields and you slip in, Liddy letting free a shivery little breath, paws pressed together atop her silk shrouded chest >She’s almost impossibly tight, squeezing hard on even your single digit, little rippling waves of muscle contractions passing out from her very center in hot pulses. Slowly, you begin rubbing the tip of a second finger alongside your embedded one, getting ready to go deeper >Libby’s closed her eyes now, you see, but when you lean forward to kiss her she rolls her hips against your hand, forcing your second finger into her. Again it’s vice tight and slippery >But even as you begin to pump your fingers into her, the mouse suddenly breaks your kiss and stares up at you, shaky and wild eyed “Wait,” she pants, “wait…” >You freeze. Have you done something wrong? >But Libby’s only sitting up, shuffling her arms out of her dress. You help her pull it off with your free hand, leaving the white mouse completely nude >Her breasts are all but nonexistent, tiny mounds of white fur capped with even tinier pink nipples. She’s not bottom heavy, exactly, but the flare of her hips and the round, tight swell of her rear are definite eye catchers “Let me help you too.” She says, still breathing hard >Was she about to cum? Just from that? >Reluctantly, you drag your fingers free from her slick mousey pussy and sit back, allowing Libby to have a turn exploring you >She unbuttons your shirt with practiced ease and has it off almost before you know it, even with a pair of shivery paws >When she presses herself against you next, seeking out another kiss, you wrap your arms around her, enjoying the sensation of warm, soft fur “You’re so smooth…” Libby mumbles admiringly, tracing her paws up and down your back >But the comparative hairlessness of your skin can only occupy her for so long before she finds her way to your belt, undoing it with a fevered quickness, egged on by the solid bulge in your pants >You lift your hips from the bed to aid her in tugging your pants down, the mouse doing so with an enthusiastic jerk. Your cock flops free and bats Libby on the tip of the nose, the mouse recoiling for a startled moment before laughing >She sits back, the two of you now in the center of the bed, equally nude. Libby seems to have recovered a bit from your fingering, though you can tell from the tiny squirming motions she’s making that she hasn’t had nearly enough “Can I…um…?” Libby blushes bright red, unable to finish the question >You have no idea what she’s asking but nod anyway. Slowly, almost gingerly, the mouse wraps both paws around your shaft. She can’t quite get her fingers around the middle, you realize, and can’t suppress a little shiver at the sensation of her soft paws stroking along your length >Then comes a sudden warmth, Libby suckling at the head of your cock, her tongue drawing quick little circles across sensitive flesh. There are little noises leaking from between her lips, tiny groans and squeaking moans, and when you look down further you see that there’s a paw between her legs >You stroke behind the mouse’s round ears, enjoying the little flutter they do between your fingers as you slowly push your cock deeper into Libby’s mouth. Her eyes slide fully open and she glances up at you, mouth open wide, little threads of intermingled saliva and pre drooling to the bedspread below >You’re almost panting as Libby presses herself forward onto your length, trying to get as much of you as possible into her mouth. But though she tries you can see tears beginning to boil at the corners of her eyes and after a long moment, your cock squeezed on all sides by velvety wetness, she draws back with a gasp, the fur around her mouth slick and her breath coming in little gasps “Was that good?” She asks, looking up at you as she wipes her mouth >You nod and lean in to press her onto her back, exploring her chest as you do so. Your fingers find the stiff pink peaks of her nipples and when you rub them Libby squirms in place, legs sliding open as she realizes what’s coming next >It only takes a moment for you to line yourself up with her slippery entrance, but you hold back for a moment, Libby squirming beneath you, flushed and nervous and intensely aroused all at once >You can feel her rolling her hips against you, the head of your cock slipping off of her vice tight entrance “Ready?” You ask, lining yourself up once more >Libby gives you a quick nod and then you’re pressing forward with a single deliberate motion of your hips >Again there’s a feeling of directionless resistance, like you’re pressing against a flat pane of slick, flexible skin, then Libby *squeaks* and you feel the head of your cock pop into a scalding, clenching sort of warmth >For a moment you’re sure you’ve just hurt her, but if there’s any pain then Libby isn’t showing it. She bucks against you, all but writhing in place as your cock stretches her little pink hole “Keep going.” She urges, the words airy as she pants and gasps her arousal into the open air >You oblige her and, emboldened by her apparent stretchiness, sink yourself into her pussy. But though you never lose your cautious pace, Libby never seems to run out of room, and it’s with a hint of genuine glee that you feel your hips meet hers >For a moment the two of you exchange eye contact, each as surprised as the other, then you lean forward and grind the entirety of your thick length into the little mouse. She lets out an airy groan and you feel her tail wrap tight around your leg, keeping you tightly bound to her >She’s almost impossibly wet and though for a moment you think the incredible tightness and heat clamping down on your cock will strangle the finer edges of your sensation, you can feel a warm, tingly sort of pleasure bleeding through into your very center, a growing tightness gathering between your legs >Libby cums almost instantly, whimpering into your mouth as she desperately kisses you, legs spasming from where they’ve clamped against your hips, keeping you hilted inside of her >She’s trying to say something but again the words are falling apart, and judging by the almost rueful look on her face you’d say that Libby knows this. She laughs and kisses you again. You, for your part, continue to fuck her >The bed squeaks beneath you and you learn to thrust against the rhythm of the train, letting its gentle sway add extra emphasis to your thrusts. Even as you do it’s clear that this won’t last long >Libby is squirmy and eager, grinding against you with unhidden lust, fucking herself to a second, then a third climax, each burst of pleasure seeming to build from the last. She’s squeezing down on your cock and though you do your best to ignore the ecstatic build welling up within you, there’s an inevitability to the whole thing that cannot be defied >Beneath you, Libby takes a shallow breath and manages to speak. You suddenly realize what she was trying to say earlier “In me,” she gasps, “in me.” >The raw eagerness in her voice sends you over the edge and you hilt into her, balls tightening even as they press against the underside of her tail. A spasm of white hot pleasure jolts through you, intense as a lightning strike, and Libby cries out, unapologetically loud, tail tightening its grip on your leg as she feels a hot spurt of human seed spray directly into her womb >It takes a while for the rawer edges of your climax to fade, and by the time they do you can feel Libby panting beneath you, squirming as warm trickles of cum slide down the insides of her thighs and stain the bedspread >Slowly, you guide yourself onto your side, bringing Libby with you as you do. The little mouse is panting, her fur mussed, tail slowly relinquishing its grip on you “How was it?” You ask >Libby leans forward and snuggles against your chest with a contented sigh >That’s enough of an answer for you “I’m glad I met you.” Libby says after a time, when she’s caught most of her breath back and both of you are slowly descending from the afterglow >You smile and stroke her fur, tracing the sleek lines of her body “I couldn’t have found a better travel companion.” You answer >Libby blushes hard, then buries her face into the pillows to hide that blush. Still, you can see her tail swishing wildly behind her “Let’s get washed up.” She suggests, and though you’re reluctant to stop cuddling, it is a good idea >It’s just too bad that the little shower cubicles aboard the Orient Express are too small for more than one person at a time >Libby must depart soon afterwards, in order to attend to any wants her mistress may have, and it’s with a curious sort of sadness that you see her go…though you know she’ll never be very far away >That strange, immaterial sadness is tempered with a new resolve >It would seem that you’re going around the world now >…If Ms. Strand agrees, you remind yourself, but feel confident that you can find some way to persuade her into accepting your presence >It’s easy to fall asleep and you wake customarily early, attending to your morning routine before venturing to the dining car. There are newspapers available, freshly picked up from the midnight stop at Strasbourg, and you pick one of the British ones. >None of the news is especially interesting: saber rattling between Germany and Russia, a jewel robbery in London, the death of a British colonial governor… >It’s not long before Ms. Strand, followed closely by Libby, enter the dining car. Ms. Strand looks about the same but there’s an undeniable pep to Libby’s step that makes you smile >You invite them over and, to your relief, the cat steps over to your booth, sitting opposite you, much as she did the previous night. Libby sits primly next to her mistress, but the insides of her ears are quite pink and she cannot stop fidgeting, a definite warmth upon her cheeks “Good morning, Ms. Strand.” You say, doing your absolute best to be as polite and inoffensive as possible >Even as you do so you can’t help but wonder just how you’re going to build up to the inevitable question >The cat glances to Libby, disregarding your comment “I left my sapphire brooch in the berth,” she says, “if would you fetch it please.” >Libby sets off with a murmur of affirmation and suddenly the cat’s eyes are on you “I don’t like thanking people too many times in a row,” she says, “it’s exhausting.” “Excuse me?” You ask “But,” Ms. Strand continues, examining the breakfast menu, ignoring your words once more, “you did rejuvenate my valet, and for that I’m appreciative. I was beginning to worry she would not have the fortitude for this journey I’m undertaking.” “Well, ma’am…” You begin, but the words are lanced from your mouth “If you are to travel around the world with us then there are some rules. You will not meddle with my route. You will not meddle with my affairs…and you will not break my valet’s heart. Do you understand?” >All you can do is nod “Yes ma’am.” You say “Good.” She says, then returns to her breakfast menu >It’s not long before Libby comes back with the requested brooch. Ms. Strand accepts it but does not put it on, instead tucking it away, well out of sight. She looks over top of her menu at Libby, momentarily contemplative “Perhaps you’d like to sit next to your new travel companion.” She says >Libby blinks hard, momentarily surprised, then executes a quick double take between you and her mistress “Um…” She manages, once again lost for words, then silently sits next to you, all but humming with nervous excitement >For a moment everyone is silent. You steal a little glance with Libby, then offer a hand. She takes it and leans against your shoulder with a near silent sigh of perfect contentment “Isn’t this nice,” Ms. Strand says to nobody at all, “perhaps we will make it after all.”