Graffiti 2

We had a new guy move into our neighbourhood recently. The house he moved into was a bit run down, needing a few repairs and a paint job. Similarly, his garden needed a fair bit of work done on it. It's shameful how some people let their properties deteriorate. Still I don't suppose you can blame either the new owner or old Mrs Harrock. She died and the place just sat empty until this guy brought it.

I saw him a few times working on the place. He was steadily improving it but didn't seem in too much of a hurry. I have to admit I checked him out. Why wouldn't I? I was young and single and there was a new man in the area. Of course I was going to take a look.

The immediate drawback was age. I was barely twenty and this guy looked as though he was in his thirties. He also looked as though he was a bit of a tough. He was a big solid looking man, with muscles, not fat. Or as far as I could tell, anyway. I suppose you could call him reasonably good looking.

The trouble was he had short cropped blonde hair and bright blue eyes. Why was this a problem, you ask? The first time I saw him he was dressed all in black and had this wicked looking knife he was working with, doing something to the house. My immediate thought was that he looked like the handsome villain in old World War II movies. You know the sort of guy, the handsome SS officer who was all smiles and treachery. This made me want to giggle whenever I saw him, and you can't get serious about someone you're laughing at.

Anyway, I forgot about Mr SS and went on with my normal day to day activities. It turned out that I was strolling past his place one afternoon with Debbie and Michelle. Debbie pointed out that the man had done quite a bit of work on the house. Michelle agreed but pointed out that he hadn't touched the jungle yet. Nor had he done any painting.

"He's probably leaving the garden until he's finished the house," I observed, "but I haven't actually seen him doing any work on it lately."

"Neither have I," said Michelle. "Do you think he's just got sick of all the work he has to do and is leaving it for a while?"

I knew Michelle had scoped the man out and dismissed him as too old. Debbie had a steady and wasn't interested in changing. (Actually, Michelle had a steady, also, but that had never stopped her looking around.)

"You know," I said thoughtfully, "you could be right. Maybe he needs a little incentive."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my brother has been painting his bike and he's been using spray pain. There are several cans in the garage with a bit of paint in them. Why don't we sneak over sometime and spray 'paint me' on the sides of the house. There'll be no real harm in it as he's going to have to do it sooner or later."

Michelle was all for the idea. Debbie dithered a bit, worried about what might happen if we were caught.

"It wouldn't matter," I told her. "He knows he's going to have to paint the house anyway. He'd look small and nasty if he stirred up trouble over it."

"Mean, maybe," drawled Michelle, "but have you seen the size of that guy. You couldn't make him look small."

At the end of the discussion Debbie agreed to go along with it. We decided that we'd do it late in the evening, preferably when he was out. It was OK to assume that we wouldn't really get in trouble if we were caught but that was no reason not to take precautions.

We met up late that evening. Night, really, as it was nearly ten.

"The lights are all off," I said, "so he's either not in or has already gone to bed which is a stroke of luck. We'll split up, each taking one side. Just spray paint it fast and we'll get out of here."

I gave the girls a spray can each and I darted down one side of the house. Michelle was already starting on the front and Debbie nipped around the far side.

I barely had time to spray the P when I heard a man's voice and a small shriek from Michelle. God, no. Busted, just like that? It wasn't fair.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," called Mr SS, laughing. "I have your friend."

If he wasn't laughing he definitely sounded amused.

I hesitantly stuck my head around the corner. He was standing in front of the steps, his hand on Michelle's shoulder. I could see Debbie looking around the other side of the house. I shrugged. I couldn't let Michelle take all the blame. I came forward and Debbie followed my example.

"My, my," came the sarcastic comment, "it's the three Bimbettes, Bashful, Snoopy and Giggly."

Bimbettes? Who in hell were the Bimbettes? I found them later. Three idiot girls in Disney's Beauty and the Beast. I had a nasty feeling just who he was referring to as Giggly.

"Well, ladies, why don't we just step inside for a few moments and have a little chat?"

Reluctantly we followed him into the house. No choice really, he was still holding onto Michelle. We went in and he turned on the light and my first thought was, 'Wow."

I'd been in the house before, when old Mrs Harrock was alive. I used to drop in every so often to make sure she still was. I was lucky as she always was. I'd have hated to find a dead body. She finished up dropping dead at the local McDonalds which must have disconcerted them somewhat.

The inside of the house had been like old Mrs Harrock. Old and deteriorating. Now it was showing signs of life. The floors gleamed with polish. Old plaster had been patched up and repainted. All sorts of small improvements had been done. That explained why he hadn't got around to painting the outside just yet. He was working on the inside.

"Now do you three idiots care to tell me what you think you were up to?"

Michelle and Debbie both turned and looked at me. Obviously they thought that as it was my idea it was up to me to explain.

"Um, we were just going to write paint me on the sides of the house to encourage you to get on with it," I said, feeling every bit the idiot he thought me.

"Really?" he said. "Did you consider the damage that might do?"

Who was he kidding?

"You were going to have to paint anyway," I pointed out. "It wouldn't really make any difference."

"Except this," he said, pulling Michelle's spray can out of his pocket "is an oil-based paint. It will soak through into the wood. Instead of just cleaning the walls and repainting I'll have to sand the graffiti away and put a sealant over the area to stop the oil base from coming through the new paint."

Uh-oh. I hadn't even considered that there might be different types of paint. I mean, as far as I'm concerned, paint is paint.

The three of us were looking guiltily at each other, blushing. At least, they hadn't known either. Small consolation.

"So, the situation as I see it is that I have the three Bimbettes here, all of them guilty of trespass, graffiti and vandalism. I assume that you are not too eager for me to call the police?"

As one, we shook out heads.

"Um, it's not really trespass," I ventured. "We did remain on the paths. And we didn't really get a chance to do the graffiti, so it's not really vandalism." (I glossed over the letter P that I'd painted. It was only one letter, after all.)

"Ah, I see. So you won't mind if I call the cops."

"No," squeaked Debbie, looking horrified. "Just shut-up, Sandra."

"So, it's Bashful, Snoopy and Sandra," came the dry comment.

I sighed.

"Michelle and Debbie," I muttered, nodding to each of them in turn.

"I'm Frank. If I'm not going to throw you to the cops I suppose I'd better do a little bit of selective law enforcement, myself."

I did not like the sound of that.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"I'm too lazy to deal with all of you. One I can cope with. So I'll put one of you across my knee and give her, let's see, paint me has seven letters so I'll make it seven good hard spanks."

"You're kidding," squeaked Debbie, horrified.

"There were three of us and three signs," I snapped. "Why not make it twenty one spanks? You're being ridiculous."

"Shut-up, Sandra," said Michelle. "You might give him ideas."

I stood there fuming, but I knew what I was going to have to do. I was the ring-leader in this case.

"Alright," I snapped. "If you're going to beat one of us it had better be me."

"Spank, not beat," Frank said. "Why would I worry about chasing you around the house to catch you for your spanking when I've got a prime candidate right here in my clutches?"

Michelle and I both said "What?" while Debbie looked relieved.

"The punishment would lose most of its effect if the spankee volunteers for it," said Frank, looking smugly bland.

With that he sat down on a couch, pulling Michelle over his knee. All Debbie and I could do was stand and watch. Michelle was looking at me with a help-me look, but all I could do was shrug helplessly.

Bad luck for Michelle that she was wearing a skirt. (So was I, come to think of it. And that could so easily have been me.) Frank just flicked her skirt up away from her bottom, showing of a lacy little pair of panties. With that his hand came down hard, delivering a hard spank to each cheek. Michelle squealed and jumped and both Debbie and I winced in sympathy.

After those first two spanks Frank paused for a moment. Would you believe it; he reached down and pulled Michelle's panties down. The look on Michelle's face went from pained protest to appalled.

"You can't do that?" she protested, at the same time as me.

"Yes, I can. I have," Frank said. "Don't worry about it. It's not as though I'm going to be poking you here."

He followed this up by poking Michelle, and I know just where his finger poked. The way her eyes opened wide told me that.

"Now, where were we?" He said, sounding happy. "Ah, yes, count of two."

With that he finished off the spanking, delivering another five hard spanks to her bottom. (Her bare bottom. Poor Michelle.)

With that he let her scramble to her feet, which was followed by a hurried pulling up of her panties. Michelle was looking flushed and not too unhappy. I gave her a quizzical look and she went even redder.

"I don't think I need to detain you ladies anymore," Frank said quietly, his arm sweeping in the direction of the door. "I trust you'll remember my little warning. If I catch you here again I won't be so polite."

"Polite?" I asked, putting some decent incredulity into my voice.

"Well, yes. What would you call it? I didn't swear or bitch. I didn't hand you over to the police. I only administered selective punishment, and that was with your consent."

I thought that Michelle was going to explode at that one.

"Consent? When did I consent?"

"You didn't say not to," said Frank, sounding surprised.

Surprised my ass. He knew damn well she didn't know she could have refused.

Michelle just looked at him, speechless, and I turned her and pushed her towards the door.

"Don't hurry back," called Frank. "If you do I may get nasty."

"Really?" I said, giving him the chill treatment. "What will you do? Rape us?"

"Seeing you suggest it, why not? But selectively, remember. Only one of you."

I stormed out of the house, ushering Michelle and Debbie along in front of me. The nerve of the man. I could hear him behind us, cackling like a laughing hyena.

As soon as we were outside the house Debbie said goodnight and bolted. The whole thing had been a bit much for her.

"Apart from the spanking," I asked Michelle, "what's biting you?"

"Did you see the way he poked me in the pussy?" she asked.

"Not actually see it," I admitted, "but I had a pretty good idea that he had. I saw your face when he did it."

"God, that was so sexy," she muttered. "Being poked like that on your bare pussy when your friends are watching and he didn't give a damn. He's a sexy beast, isn't he? Pity he's so old."

Mid thirties wasn't that old, in my opinion, and he was more of a sarcastic swine than a sexy beast. It would have served him right if I had finished paining my little sign.

Michelle headed off home and I did likewise. As I was walking past our garage it occurred to me that Mr Frank SS didn't check how much I'd actually painted. Even though he'd confiscated our spray cans there were still a couple left in the garage. If I waited a while and gave him a chance to go to bed I could sneak around and finish the job. There wouldn't be anything he could do. He couldn't prove I came back and did it.

The more I considered the idea the more I liked it. I wouldn't even go in by the front gate. Part of the front fence needed repairs and I could sneak in that way. It seemed like a plan to me.

I gave Frank a couple of hours to go to bed and settle down, then I grabbed another can and went sneaking back. It was child's play to slip through the gap in the fence and approach the house from the side. I could see the P I'd put on the wall quite plainly in the moonlight and I raised the can to continue.

And I nearly died when a hand closed over my mouth and a voice whispered in my ear.

"Please don't scream. It upsets the neighbours when they hear screams and think what it would do to my reputation."

Frank's hand dropped away from my mouth but it didn't drop very far. It landed on my shoulder and although it didn't feel like a tight hold I was willing to lay odds I wouldn't be able to shake it off.

Frank turned and strolled around to the front of the house and I found myself strolling with him. Not exactly willingly but, like I thought, that gentle hand on my shoulder wasn't really all that gentle. Where Frank was going, I was going.

"You know, if I was a gambling man, I'd have laid odds that you would be the one to come back and try to finish the job. Bashful I was surprised you even got to come along in the first place and Snoopy had a sore bottom to remind her not to. I assume that Snoopy has a boyfriend?"

"Yes. Why?"

"She was looking as though she was horny when she left. There was always the chance she'd come back and expect me to do something about it. If she's got a boyfriend then she's probably visiting him right now."

I was about to defend Michelle when I remembered the flush on her face and her heavy breathing. And the sexy beast comment. Damn it, Frank was right. She probably was visiting her boyfriend right then.

Frank opened the front door and marched me through it before releasing me.

"I suppose you're going to call the police this time," I muttered.

"Don't be silly," he said, speaking softly and smiling a lot. "I've already told you what I'd do if I caught one of you here again."

I remembered my crack about rape and his laughing agreement and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.

"No thank you," I said quickly. "I'll pass."

"Ah, I don't think that's an option where rape is concerned," he said. "In fact if you didn't say no, it wouldn't be rape, now would it?"

"You implied earlier that you only spanked Michelle because she assented. Or, at least, she didn't refuse."

"Just stirring you up, sweetheart. I had every intention of spanking her. She's pretty and it was fun. Shocking you and Bashful was a plus."

I glared at him. I'd known it. I'd damn well known Michelle's consent or refusal wouldn't have mattered.

"So what are you really going to do? Spank me? I'll fight."

"No. I'm going to take off all your clothes and then rape you. And you're not going to fight me."

"What makes you think I won't fight you?" I almost screamed the question at him.

"You would think it undignified. You'll go all Mahatma Ghandi and try passive resistance. Not that it will work, but I'm sure you'll give it your best shot."

With that Frank just took the zip to my jacket and pulled it down. I automatically started to push at his hands and he just looked at me.

"I can always start by taking your panties off first, if you prefer," he said, and I hastily dropped my hands.

He had my jacket off and was busy undoing my blouse before it dawned on me what difference did it matter where he started? He was going to take all my clothes off anyway.

"You, you, . ." I said, but I couldn't think of anything nasty enough to call him.

He winked at me, damn him, and peeled my blouse off.

"Turn around," he told me, probably wanting to unclip my bra. I ignored him.

"Passive resistance, that's the thing," he said, moving around behind me.

He unclipped my bra and I was now topless. Standing in front of me he lightly brushed his hands against my breasts. A gently rolling of my nipples with the palm of his hand and they reacted, standing out. For that matter, my breasts also seemed to swell.

"Mind you, your nipples seem to think passive cooperation is the way to go," came the comment, with my cooperative nipples being gently kissed as a reward.

I was breathing harder and trying not to show it. I would not let him think he was getting to me.

He continued playing with my breasts. Standing still, instead of pushing my breasts against his hands, was murder. He knew I wanted to, too.

He finally moved on from my breasts, reaching down to undo my skirt. That just dropped away and I was standing there in my panties. Not a very big pair of panties at that. Oh, and my shoes, of course. Oh, my, god, could things get any worse? As soon as my panties went I'd be standing in these silly little anklet socks and Nikes, which aren't exactly small. I'd look as though I was wearing canoes on my feet.

To my annoyance, instead of removing my panties, Frank knelt down and started taking of my sneakers. How dare he do that? He was doing it deliberately to stop me feeling embarrassed, I just knew it. Did he think I'd thank him for it? I squashed rebellious little feelings of gratitude and looked daggers at him. He must have felt them. He looked up at me and wiggled his eyebrows. I bit my lip. He would not make me laugh.

"Do you want to take your panties off," he asked, to which I gave a curt, "No."

"OK," he said.

He was still kneeling, his head level with my waist. He reached up and holed a finger over the waist of my panties and drew them down. On one side. About an inch. Then he reached for the other side and did the same. He shuffled around behind me, moving on his knees, hooked the rear of my panties and dragged them down. Not even an inch that time, I suspected.

He kept on doing that. Dragging them down a tiny bit here and a tiny bit there. For Christ's sake! How long does it take to remove a girl's panties? Was he trying for a record or something? It was all I could do not to scream at him and drag them down myself.

Would you believe if got worse. He eventually had them low enough so that the start of my slit was showing and every time he lowered them a little bit at the front his knuckles would press against my mons, my labia, even hard up between my lips so that I could feel him starting to press inside me.

Eventually he got them to a level where they were no longer stretched over my thighs and they slithered down of their own accord, much to my relief.

Before he stood up Frank ran his hand up the inside of my leg, culminating in pressing it firmly against my mound. I could feel him pressing his hand against my lips and they felt all soft and yielding. I also seemed to be sweating very heavily down there. At least, I hope that was sweat I felt.

Standing, he started to strip. I looked determinedly elsewhere. I would not look at his body. I just stared past him, ignoring him. Or trying to, anyway. I'd never realised how much you could take in with your peripheral vision. Movement was the worst. I could see his hands as they moved about taking his clothes off, which meant I also saw what was being unveiled. The man looked as though he was chiselled out of rock. I guess all that work fixing up the house was building up his muscles. Something certainly had.

Once he was naked he pulled me up against him, holding me to him while his hands ran over my back, stroking me. In my opinion, he spent far too much time stroking my backside. On top of that I could feel him pressing firmly against my tummy. My imagination was doing silly little tricks, trying to estimate his size from the feel of him against me. Maybe I should have looked. Then I'd have known what he had.