Chapter 11: Rainy Afternoon

Rainy Afternoon

“Nothing has really changed between us, has it?” Roger asked me as we worked steadily on increasing our site’s database.

“No, don’t think so. Except for the nicknames. And the disgusting, continuous rounds of ‘I love you’ have begun.”

“You know when I was little, I swore to myself that I would never be part of one of those couples.” He commented. “D’you get that code done yet?”

“No, hold your horses. I don’t work as fast as professional hackers, and its not like its easy. I’m doing it from scratch.” I muttered as I added another line of code. That’s what we were doing this afternoon. Conversing and working. The same as any other afternoon.

“Damn, okay. Sorry.” He said, laughing.

“By the way, I swore the exact same thing when I was little.” I said to him, a sort of silent apology.

“Get that code done yet?” He asked me again, not thirty seconds after he had asked the first time.

“If I was there, I would slap you.” I commented. I entered the final line of code. “And yes, yes I did get the code done. But now I’m not uploading it for another five minutes just to piss you off."

“Aww, come on. You know I was just teasing.” He complained.

“And you damn well know I just sent you the code in an email so you could put it in and upload it.”

“Yup.” He admitted. “Thank you anyway, baby.”

“You’re welcome. Hey, you mind if I sing? I need to get this melody worked out.”

“Class or for my personal enjoyment?”

“For my personal enjoyment, this time around. I got all my theory homework done.”

“Wow, good girl.”

“I’m not a dog.” I took a breath. It was always odd singing on the phone, but the fact that I could retrieve neither melody or words from my poor, school abused brain was driving me nuts.

“Its time to celebrate the world, rejoice in all we’ve gained; lift your hands and sing today, towards the gods we pray to…” I trailed off, thinking. I had gotten that much down, but beyond that, I was clueless.

“It sounds Christian to me. Lighten it up a bit. Paganism…” I could tell he was about to go on a rant, but it sounded find to me. “Pagans are different because of the way that we celebrate. When you sing that line – the bit about lifting your hands and singing – that indicates audience participation. There is no audience in our rituals, right?”

“We’re all a part of it.” I admitted.

I suppose I should stop and explain a moment. We – us – Roger and I – are not Christian. We are Pagan. Wiccan. Witches. We celebrate the earth and balance, we believe in the Gods and the Ancestors as our guiding forces through the world. We don’t sacrifice living organisms, such as animals, small children, or Christians. Most of the time.

“So shouldn’t the song – and I’m assuming you’re writing it because you want to write a ritual song – be focused more on what the group is actively doing, and less on what they’re automatically doing in their hearts? We all pray, silly. And I’m pretty sure I’ve lifted my entire body in praise of the Lord and Lady more than enough in my life.”

“So something like a ritual dance song?” I asked him. I changed rhythms, changed keys, and tried it out. “Beltane’s come, planting’s here, sow the seeds for the coming year and clap your hands, stomp your feet, laugh and dance to the music.”

“See? That was good. It was simple, it had the potential for a lot of power, and it was pretty."

“Pretty? I used four notes. And it sounded so hollow.”

“Try adding some sort of percussion?” He asked me. “Even just tapping your fingers or hand against your leg.”

“Okay…” I sang the small verse again, adding a basic beat with my hand. “But its not what I wanted to create. I’m in the Choir; I’ve sung the Jesus songs. Some of them – a select few of them, mind you – have this great burst of joy rushing forth. It almost seems like me singing is hollow, like its not enough. I want to gift the gods with the choir sound. I want to write for a choir or at least a group of people.”

“And whose to say that what you’ve just created isn’t strong enough for a group of people?” He challenged me. A window popped up on my computer screen, showing two messages – ‘I love you’ and the web address for the newly uploaded page. “Let’s say you add three percussion instruments, one for the basic beat, one for a syncopated one, and one as a sort of power builder – something low or high, and give that one a driving beat. Then let’s say you put thirty voices behind your own singing that exact same part you sang to me a minute ago. And add another thirty – some for a bass line, and the others for a descant or round type addition to the song. Now I’ve never been a musician and I can tell you that much.”

“But what I sang was minor.” I argued. “I’ve never had the ooh-ahh musical orgasm feeling with a minor song.”

“You’ve never had a musical orgasm with a minor song? Didn’t you just tell me a few months ago how you loved that one song because it was so slow and beautiful?”

“Well, yes. But its not the same. Here, let’s use an example. The feeling I’m talking about – have you ever seen Sister Act 2? The part where the young boy finds his voice and leads with a solo in ‘Oh, Happy Day,’ that gospel song. The warm fuzzy feeling you get when you watch that is what I’m looking for. Understand?”

“Well, I don’t have a pagan gospel choir for you to practice on, nor have I ever seen one in existence. But my guess is that you could still write a song like that from what you have already. You have the talent, you have the beginnings of a background, now you just need to apply it.”

“I suppose I could look at the chord structure. I have a question for you quick – what were the names that you used in the form fields? Or do you want me to check?” I changed the subject, although my mind was still churning. What made those musical progressions so powerful? Was it the energy flowing between the choir members, or was it the actual music that was being created?

“User, pass, term, definition; for the submit form. For the pulling out form, just the ‘term’, and I have to leave it up to your genius to retrieve and display the definition.”

“I’ve actually got most of that code’s setup right in front of me. You should know how to do it before. You took a look at the code that drives the submission pages, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know a PHP query from what I had for dinner last night.” He laughed.

“You’re silly.” I reached over to the side of my desk and grabbed the bottle of Coke I had been drinking. We had been at it for at least an hour.

“I’m taking a small break. The code’s done, my fingers are sticky, and I can’t feel my ass.” I decided.

“Wow, you can type and masturbate at the same time?” He asked me, sounding sarcastically amazed.

“I never said I was masturbating.”

“Well your hands are sticky and your butt is numb, and I know what weird fetishes you have, so I just assumed…”

“You have the same ones.” I tried to control my laughter. “My fingers are sticky from the pop, and my ass is numb from the chair I’m sitting on.”

“Pop?”

“I’m sorry. The southern term would be ‘soda’ or ‘soda pop’. Around here, its pop. I remember going down there once, asking a place if they had any pop. They gave me the weirdest look.”

“That’s because it’s an odd Yankee slang term that none of us southerners use because its…odd.”

“Need I quote you on some of your famous analogies, straight from the heart of hicksville?” I asked him, standing up and stretching out. I let out a small moan of approval as my back cracked five or six times.

“What have I ever said?”

“Something about a rusty bucket down a well? If you used any of your normal language up here, you’d be restrained in one of those little white jackets.”

“That’s because y’all are Yankees and noneya speak right.” (Yes, he did say “noneya”, not “none of you”. I know, I’m going to marry a southern boy.)

“Do I even need to point the irony of that statement out to you?”

“No.” He said sheepishly. “Hang on a second.”

I heard him set the phone down, and moments later, heard a series of cracks echo across the many miles between us and into my phone’s receiver. I shuddered as the mental image of him holding his head and cracking his neck, looking like he was going to rip his own head off, came flooding into my mind. I had watched him and begged him not to do it on his web cam several times; heard him and begged him not to do it over the phone, several times. He never listened.

“Ewwww! That’s so gross! Disgusting!” I said disapprovingly as I heard him pick the phone back up.

“It’s not my fault. Plus, you couldn’t have heard what I did, I set the phone down on the table at least four foot away from my neck.”

“I heard it loud and clear. Disgusting.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to freak you out.” He almost sounded guilty.

“Yes, yes you do. You do it for your own personal amusement.” I amended his statement, trying to sound menacing.

“Oh beautiful princess, you are correct, and again I apologize.” I could almost see the laughter in his eyes as he said that.

“No you’re not.” Arguing with him was a favorite past time. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Again, I apologize.”

“Sure you do.” Smiling, I looked around and decided my neck needed cracking also. “Can you hang on a second?”

“To what?”

“Whatever you’d like. I’ll be right back.”

I set the phone down and twisted my neck to both sides, getting small, satisfying cracks out of it. I ran to the bathroom to do my business and returned within a minute, toilet still flushing in the background.

“I’m back.” I said to him, as I heard him finish up a short tune, hummed in a soprano voice. It almost sounded like Yankee Doodle.

“Hey sugar puff. How was your piss?”

“How’d you know, pookie bear?”

“I heard the toilet, mushy butt.”

“You think I have a mushy butt, cuddly?”

“About as much as you think I’m cuddly; when you know I’m over six foot, two hundred pounds of mostly muscle and a little bit of fat.”

“My butt isn’t mushy.” I protested. “I don’t really have much of an ass, remember?”

“You have a little one, and its cute.” He commented. “It makes me want to pinch it and rub it.”

“Anything else?”

“Slap it?” He asked hopefully.

“Oooh, you’re diiirttty.” I replied, laughing. “You can, if you’d like.”

“What would happen if I didn’t?” He asked me.

“I’d probably end up begging you to.” I admitted.

This is probably a good time to stop and explain a little bit, for those of you that are actually reading my account. We – him and I – have fetishes. Ours do not include the famous chicken-castration and armpit-fucking fetishes, but they are a little out there. We don’t talk about it too much, but both of us mentioned we enjoy the thought of spanking, either way. Which leads into basic domination and submission – ropes, straps, handcuffs, gags, blindfolds. Not that kinky, right? Well, then we get into my forced-sex-acts fantasies, which I’ve been assured lots of people have. Slight exhibitionism – videos, pictures, etc, interest us both, though we haven’t acted on those (that I know of. What he’s done with others is his business).

Anyway, back to the thing I mentioned at first. Since this is my personal account of my personal relationship with a man I’ve never even met, I’m going to go on a small diversion to explain what having a fetish is. I’m going to use the one that we first introduced to each other – the spanking one.

Having a fetish doesn’t mean you get turned on by the thing every time it happens. For example, I doubt either of us would get turned on by watching a mother spanking her child. I don’t really get turned on if one of my friends slaps my ass, which they tend to do quite often. And neither of us is useless sexually if there’s not some sort of spanking involved. Well, again, a guess on my part. I’ve never met him, and my sex experiences haven’t been that awesome.

It’s the same, I’m guessing, with foot fetish, or latex fetish people. If they saw a dead man’s foot covered in gangrene, I doubt they would want to suck on its toes. Latex people…if they saw a six hundred pound woman covered in latex, again, I doubt they’d want to fuck themselves thinking about it. But hey, to each their own, right? And a second thing, having a fetish isn’t a mental problem or a disability. Sometimes it can be caused by a mental problem or a difficult situation. Maybe a foot-fetish person was abused by someone in their childhood. But certainly not all foot-fetish people were or have ever been abused. I’ve never been abused. Roger’s never been abused.

For me, the intimacy between the spanker-and-spankee relationship is the turn on. It’s the mild dominance and submission play. And the doubt in my mind that anyone ever could, well, get me over their knee. Its always interested me, even pre-puberty. It’s the challenge, I suppose.

For others it’s the thought of being taken care of, that you always have someone to watch out for you. Still for others its just fun. Some people need to be challenged, to be controlled, to be dominated, to get pleasure out of life. Some people need to challenge, dominate and control to get their pleasure. Some people need to worship and suck on toes. Some people need to be suffocated, or be covered in food, or dress up like a baby and have a mom take care of them and make them urinate in their adult sized diaper. I repeat what I said above: To each their own.

The rest of that afternoon, we spoke and worked on the site, adding several new sections. I fed the ferret. And then my parents wanted me to go out to dinner with them, so we got off the phone after six hours of continual contact. I know, sad, right? The story resumes when I call him back.