Fonding and Permission Ch. 02

"Can I borrow your brown?"

"Yes, no problem." He pushed his watercolour set across the table to her.

He sat next to Alice again in maths that afternoon. The cheerful hubbub of art class had been replaced by anxious mutters and whispers. Last week's tests were back and their fellow students were in more or less tense conversation about their results. Felix looked to his right, where she was working her way through hers, unconcerned as ever.

"Yours OK?" he asked.

"Oh, underwhelming," she said. "A pass is a pass ... You got your A again?"

"I guess so," he said, looking down at his near perfect mark half-ashamed.

"Still don't get why an arts degree has to involve maths."

"Well, you can see how it might help you be creative," he said fairly.

"No," she said flatly.

"But look-- "

"Is this another of your original views?"

"I just mean ... analysing stuff helps you see the variables you can work with."

"Yeah ... but calculus? I'm pretty sure Mona Lisa happened without differentiation."

"'S true she looks pretty indifferent," he mumbled.

Alice chuckled and returned her attention to her test.

Felix carefully enclosed his own in his notebook and scanned the classroom.

His eyes immediately picked out Cassie and Jennifer, who had both cast their tests aside after reading the mark and were making a great show of laughing at one of Darren's jokes. Making a show was Cassie's bread and butter. She was freeing her long, blonde sheet of hair with her hands, letting it ripple behind her as she tossed her head like a young mare with each heave of her chest.

Felix managed to tear his eyes away, frowning, telling himself to stop glancing at her, wondering whether she had noticed his habit. Probably not, he thought. She's used to being glanced at. She's good at it.

Dr. Stoatshill cleared his throat. "Now that you have all had the time to go through your tests," he said, and silence began to fall. "Let us take a moment to honour the best."

"Oh damn," Felix muttered, and saw Alice grin.

He had come to dread this moment over the months. He liked being good at maths, but why couldn't Dr. Stoatshill give up the stupid ritual that was poisoning his relationship with some of those who weren't on first name terms with algebra? Didn't the man have social instincts? He stared down at the featureless plastic of his desk, waiting for the worst.

"So please give a round of applause to an A+ from Mrs. Theresa Liegestütz."

Felix jerked his head up, trying to hide his surprise and mounting embarrassment, trying to ignore Darren's and Malcolm's murmurs and smirks in his direction, and turned to look at the woman sitting alone in the back row. He clapped loudly with the rest to subdue the envy suggesting itself to him, wanting to show her the appreciation he thought she deserved.

She seemed to sense it and looked back at him. He saw the apology in her face for the split second it took her to read his own. Then she seemed to light up with gratitude, and he felt his own smile warm easily, glad for her, relieved that he had managed to be gracious to her. A little colour rose into her face and he turned away politely as she lowered it, suddenly rather less worried by Darren and Malcolm.

"So," Dr. Stoatshill said. "My impression is that some of you are still struggling with the basics of differentiation, so it can do no harm to point out some of the rules again. So let us begin with polynomials ..."

But Felix was finding it hard to concentrate. Darren had begun a lecture of his own for his various neighbours and by the sound of it, one of them had had the temerity to contradict him.

"Come on, man! He's a man, right?"

Dr. Stoatshill broke off in mid-sentence. "Is there a problem?" he asked pleasantly.

"Problem?" said Darren. "No problem here, man." But Felix saw him scowl at Theresa and heard him mutter, "Like she's got half the brains ... Place your bets what he made her do for that A+."

Felix chanced another look at Theresa, who suddenly appeared rather fascinated by the wall. Was that a grin she was suppressing? He was startled. He couldn't remember her grinning of late. Now he thought about it, he seemed to have hardly any recent memories of her at all ... It struck him that he had no idea when he had last looked at her closely. She usually sat by herself in the back row and rarely said a word.

They had gone to the same school until the summer of this year, but he had quite lost sight of her in their final years, because they had hardly shared any classes. Once upon a time they had been something like friends, back in the day when they had been two skinny ten-year-olds in a world of giants, trying to hide from the bullies. He had thought her deeply serious and fragile then. Had she ever laughed? If she had, he couldn't remember what it had sounded like. And to the extent that anyone in the course knew her now, they knew her as quiet and reserved ... He watched her face curiously for a moment before looking back at his lecturer.

Dr. Stoatshill was staring back at Darren. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Mace? All of you will do decently here if you put in the hard work. And we do expect that much commitment of you."

"Like I would," Darren protested with a throwaway motion of his right hand, not even looking at Dr. Stoatshill. "Some of us are ... missing some assets."

"Well, a big mouth's an asset too," piped up Alice. "If you can get a feel for it."

Several people laughed tensely.

"Course it is," said Darren. "You don't get anywhere playing quiet. You wanna job, you want girls, you gotta talk."

"We all treasure your wisdom, Mr. Mace," Dr. Stoatshill interrupted. "Do we also have your permission to continue our discussion of calculus?"

"Sure, man," Darren said at half-volume. "Lemme see those curves."

"So, when calculating the differential of any polynomial," Dr. Stoatshill went on, impervious to the old chestnut and the sniggers it still got. "You must treat the powers of x separately. You can and should add up all the instances of a given power for tidiness' sake, but never mix-- "

But Darren wasn't paying attention. "The man just likes grey mice," he muttered to Malcolm on his left, waving at Theresa. "I mean, I'm not an asshole, man, but show me a drabber bitch ..."

Malcolm chuckled hoarsely. Darren could depend on that chuckle, Felix thought. Without all the reactions he'd probably have run out of steam much sooner, but he was just too good at getting them. And he was getting into his stride now.

"She could do way better ... Look at that shit she wears ... I mean, she wasn't born in rags ... And that bun ... looks like a fucking headmistress ... And where's all her skin, man? ... Like she wants nothing to do us ... Sad, really, cause that's a nice pair of funbags ... I can tell, man, I've seen all the disguises."

Felix felt an impulse to look Theresa's way, but checked it just in time, unsure she would want it. Nor did he want to risk her misunderstanding him. Glaring at Darren was easier to get right. But it somehow wasn't enough. He could hear the pulse rising in his ears as he opened his mouth:

"How about shutting up?"

He had spoken quite loudly to drown his nerves and heard a ripple of murmurs in reply. But he might have been talking to the radio.

"Well, we can't all have taste and eyes," Darren went on, barely even looking at him. "Cassie would get all the A-plusses here if she gave the man a ride."

That got a whoop from Jennifer and a blush and giggle from Cassie.

"Time to let it hang out a bit more, girls." He jiggled his hands in front of his own chest and Malcolm coughed out another laugh. Well, thought Felix, at least he had changed target.

"Ah, it's all about the making out in the end," Darren leant back, folding his arms behind his head. "That's where all the subtle words go ... And making out ... that's about bossing it, man. Real girls like a boss."

Malcolm muttered something Felix couldn't hear.

"Yeah, man, real girls like it rough," Darren continued, his voice loud and jarring. "Man, I'm telling you all my trade secrets here. Feeling giving today ... well, if you can afford it. What you do is ... give her a firm hammering." Squirms and giggles from Cassie and Jennifer. "Pound her hard. None of that soft shit. Cassie knows exactly what I'm talking about ... Cassie's got my privileges."

Unable to resist, Felix stole a sideways glance at Theresa. She seemed entirely focussed on Dr. Stoatshill, but he saw silent amusement playing in the corners of her mouth.

Felix was glad when the seminar was over. He found he wanted time to himself, time to relax and think. He had already packed his things by the time the class was dismissed and didn't delay for a moment. He was among the first out of the room and already half way down the long stairs to the ground floor when he heard most of the others exit above. He was about to turn the corner at the bottom when a shout spun him around.

He looked up in time to see Darren tripping over his feet near the top of the stairs, failing to regain his footing on the steps below, reaching vainly for the banisters and then hurtling downward with disastrous speed and nothing to stop him, straight towards Malcolm and Theresa, who were both descending the stairs ahead of him and had turned at the commotion. Malcolm managed to dive out of harm's way, but Theresa seemed rooted to the spot, instinct failing her.

Then her arms extended improbably and broke the big man's fall, just as he looked certain to crash face down on the half-way landing. She nearly buckled under his weight but stood her ground, supporting him as he began to right himself.

"Thanks, man ... sorry ..." Darren's breathless shock was audible all the way down the stairs. He seemed not to realise his rescuers identity and Felix saw him look up in bafflement as he heard her delicate voice.

"I'm fine," Theresa said, steady as a nurse whose patient has just puked all over her white coat. "Are you all right?"

He gaped at her, as though he had never seen her before. "I --yeah," he stammered after a few seconds. "Sorry ... sorry!"

"It's OK," she said coolly. "You want to watch out a bit, Darren."

***

Supper was over and he had done the dishes. A good night's sleep was the next thing on his to-do-list, but his mind was so busy that he couldn't believe it was going to shut down in the next few hours. Somehow, in these circumstances, he tended to end up in his desk-chair with the laptop starting up in front of him. He didn't like the way it happened almost unconsciously ...

He browsed through his Emails. Notifications from pressure groups flooded his inbox these days. He had no idea how many petitions he had signed against animal abuse, climate change, gender inequality. There seemed to be no end to the things. Just a sign of how much could do with changing, he thought sternly. The trouble --his own little trouble-- was that he had a hard time spotting the few personal messages he received between all the circulars.

Quite often he went weeks without a private Email, so his expectations were low as he skimmed the unread dozens. Perhaps that was why he nearly missed it.

Fwd from lucky-president@gmail.com: Fonding and Permission has responded to your message.

He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment. That was his second Email and he had told it to redirect to his first for the sake of convenience. Lucky President was his idea of code for Felix Dwight. But what was Fonding and Permission? ... And then he remembered: that weird little site full of birds, words and questions, where he had left a big, fuzzy fingerprint just the other day. He had half forgotten about it, but a swell of excitement ran through him at the prospect of reading an answer to those efforts. His mind had been quite somewhere else, but he had to check at once ...

His hands were suddenly trembling as he opened the Email:

Dear Felix,

Thank you for your lovely message. You left me entertained and thoughtful. I am honoured that you want to be my guest. I would be greatly pleasured to welcome you into my fold.

You can now access the member area of my site via the following link using your Email address as user name and the password shown below.

Please, I ask you, treat every word of this message as confidential. Please keep all I share with you a secret between us and do not show anyone else my site, nor any material from it. I want to show myself only to those whom I trust. I count you among those now. Please do not betray me.

Please also understand that I will not show my face anywhere on the site. I know that a personal expression helps us see each other as more than meat, and I believe many of my images would profit from the smile I have cropped out of them. But I dare not risk it. We would have to meet face to face.

So I have done my best to express myself in other ways. That hasn't been easy, but I hope that, with these words, I will be as much alive in your eyes as you now are in mine.

Your companion in joy,

Harvest Maiden

Once again, Felix had to let the words sink in. I would be greatly pleasured to welcome you into my fold. ... We would have to meet face to face. Did she really mean what that hinted at? No-one had ever given him that invitation before. He had thought the message would reduce his trembling, but it had done the opposite. He didn't know when he had last been this excited and afraid: afraid that it was all a joke or fake; and equally afraid that it wasn't ...

Of course he would be deserving of her sweet trust, keep her secret, prove his knight-in-shining-armour qualities ... He immediately pictured himself under duress, at knifepoint, maintaining a noble silence.

He followed the link impatiently. The first time a woman, any woman ever gave him her permission ... Him personally rather than the world at large.

A login popped up and he entered his Email and new password, just as she had requested. The creepers and birds spread across the screen again, but this time there were other words --handwritten still-- in the gaps between the branches. Just four words.

My defence

My pictures

He moved the cursor over them. Yes, two links. He felt tempted to open My pictures at once, but told himself to be patient and clicked on My defence first. He felt the growth of a hot firmness beneath his stomach, suggesting that it was time ... But he read.

Some would call me rash, reckless even, for sharing so much with strangers. The truth is that little is without risk, I take this one knowingly and that as you read this you and I are strangers no longer. Some would doubt my self-esteem. My answer is that it takes nothing away from me to give both of us joy. Some would doubt my dignity. I say that those who rely on clothes and reserve for their dignity are in greater need. Some would say that I lack the restraint of maturity. I answer that maturity does not always mean restraint. Some would accuse me of infidelity. But I have never made the promises they think I am breaking. Some would warn you not to get bogged down on the internet. And I agree with them. Don't waste your time here. Be my guest as it fits in with your duties, but never forget there's a world out there.

Harvest Maiden Pushup

Felix was astounded. He had never read such a succinct, powerful defence of ... was it slutdom? It seemed so righteous in her words. They were balm to him, melting his guilt, easing his conscience. He laughed. Then, shivering with suspense, he clicked on My pictures.

New handwriting sprang up between the branches and twigs.

There was A walk in the woods. Next to it sat Dartmoor days, further along Home alone, followed by a dozen more of what were probably albums, each with who knew how many pictures. A treasure trove ...

Where to begin? There was no rush ... He clicked on A walk in the woods.

There were no thumbnails, just blank squares, each a door to a hidden vault. He clicked on the first one.

There it was, the picture of her walking scarf-draped down a forest path. He enlarged it to full screen size, wishing she would turn, wishing he could see her smile, dreaming of the wind lifting her hair and scarf. A hand descended beneath his navel, cold on his heat, half suppressing his desire, half rousing it further.

He gazed at the image for a good minute before opening the next vault.

She was kneeling in a murky puddle in the middle of the path now, looking down at her open, dripping palms, her body spattered with little globs of mud. Had she said she didn't show her face? This was pushing it. Her long, brown curls fell across it and he could not see the shape of her features, but he could just discern a golden smile through the curtain of strands. How well she had placed them.

The mess she had made of herself seemed to emphasise her shape. Several brown droplets were trickling over her slightly rounded belly, mud gathering in her navel. Others were rolling down her breasts, leaving little snail-trails on the goosebumps of her skin, tracing the smooth curves until they died against the edge of the white bra she was still wearing or disappeared in the warm cleft underneath. Well, the bra might have been white before she had got into the puddle, just like the underpants. Water had stained and wetted them both to the point where they lay plastered translucently against her skin and it seemed to Felix that the only way for her to avoid a summer cold was to say farewell to them ...

And perhaps that was why, in the next image, they both lay next to the puddle in a wet little heap, leaving every detail below her neck bare to his delight. Two little drops of dirty water, no longer hindered by a bra, clung to her nipples, and he imagined what it must feel like to be inside her body, teased by the wetness, showing the camera her titillation. She had captioned the photograph in handwriting:

I like the touch of cold wind and water, of melting snow on my skin. It reminds me how much heat there is inside me.

How generous of her to kneel there ... A fantasy sprang up out of nowhere and he imagined himself shrunk to Lego man size, climbing her, mounting her sheer thighs, pulling himself up by the tiny hairs on them as she tried to hold still for him, quaking with giggles as his small shape tickled her; so much greater than him, but feeling no need to deprive him of any part of her grand self ... he imagined himself reaching for the overhang between her legs, imagined her seeing him struggle and lying down to help him, parting her legs. He would feel the tremor of her laughter again as he tried to prise apart the enormous lips with his little hands. In the end she would have mercy and do it herself, let him lie down between them, let them close and wrap hotly around him, squeeze him. She would allow him to hide inside her underpants, where no-one would never find him. She would walk about, holding him safe in her most private corner, her secret companion at whatever noble events she attended, and her intimate friend when she lay down to bathe and sleep ...

I am honoured that you want to be my guest. It was almost too kind of her, a glare so bright that it cast most of his world into darkness. He raised his hand as though to protect his eyes from the sun, then lowered it again, shook his head in amazement and adored her: those knees in the mud, those two little birthmarks below her right nipple ...

"You beauty," he whispered. "My Harvest Maiden ... I can't believe you trust me. I need to deserve this ..."