4 comments/ 20759 views/ 5 favorites Graffiti By: H-Bard-kun I'd been watching him for a week. He was the new boy in town, freshly exported from Laconia, screwing his face up in thought at assembly as he tried to understand Theran-accented Greek. Leonidas sent him with the highest recommendations, and it was easy to see why; though trim, he could put a sword halfway through a shield with one overhead swing, and though more than a few of us watched him demonstrate it, most of our eyes were fixed on the flex in his arms as he brought the sword down. His name was Amotion, and everyone called him The Young—nineteen summers old, freshest of the garrison. He showed it, too: mortified and red-faced when we caught him masturbating in the empty barracks, murmuring some woman's name over and over. If he'd been here a while longer he'd have known he could come to one of us, but all the city-bred thought you should only *truly* fuck younger boys. Something about intercourse between adults being a waste of energy. That line of thinking never really caught on out here in the sticks. What mattered to me was his curly blonde hair. His toned and, I found out when he stripped for exercise the first time, shaven body—what odd practices they had in Laconia! And his voice, still halting and nervous around us, but so sure and reverberating in his war cry that my cock bulged obvious in my loincloth. He saw it one day—I helped him with a spear thrust during drills and stared at him the whole time—and took to blushing, eyes blatantly fixed on my crotch. I pulled the cloth aside, grasping myself stroking it firm in the sun; he gasped at the tear of precum I leaked, and I grinned at him. "Krimon! Amotion! Why have you stopped?" asked our lieutenant, coming up behind me. I could hear the laugh he held back over the thud of his sandals in the dust, and didn't stop idly squeezing my dick. "I—" Amotion stammered. "I was showing him the proper grip, sir," I said, putting myself away and turning to attention. The lieutenant nodded sharply and continued on to a sparring pair further down the row, chuckling to himself. We went back to practicing, Amotion saying nothing but howling all the louder once we sparred. That voice... I could imagine it moaning. A week after he arrived, I slapped his shoulder at the gym. He was panting from a workout, and looked up at me, puzzled. "Come with me, Young," I said. "I want to show you something." He followed me, confused but blushing something fierce, out of the gymnasium. It rested on the cliffs at the edge of the island, so we'd have the most sun for exercise; I led him away through the grasses surrounding, down the nearby trail, and along the cliff edge. Watching the water crash against the rocks below, and so close to the edge as the path narrowed, he grabbed at my side. "Easy," I chuckled. "It widens in a few more feet." I didn't push him away or chide him for being nervous; his hand, still oiled from wrestling, felt good. I stopped short once or twice, letting him bump into me, feeling him grip me tighter to steady himself. Finally the path widened into a dead-end below the cliff outcrop. The flat rock rose above our heads, and a mild breeze stroked us both with ocean scent. I stepped away, turned towards him, ran my fingers along the cliff face. He followed them, pretty eyes reading what they traced. Growing wide. He looked to me with those eyes and I couldn't take it anymore, stepping close, grabbing him by his naked hips and pressing myself to his slowly growing cock. "How do you know I will?" he asked. I reached down to fondle him, hand slipping up and down his length. He loosed a soft moan, lost in the crash of a wave below. "I knew when I started carving it," I murmured, running my other hand through his hair. We kissed, and I turned him. We stumbled to the cliff face, my back against the rock, and his slimmer body squirmed into mine. He slid his dick between my thighs; I clenched them around him, watched him fuck himself against me. "Right," I said, kneading his ass. "first, you get on top of me..." ... Amotion looked glorious in the sun. The sunlight made his shadow dance lewdly on the rocks behind him, made his oiled body shine. His stomach was taut; his lovely back arched. I watched a drop of oil run down his wrist, over a finger, onto my chest. He pressed his hand there and pushed himself up, pulling nearly all the way off, ass clinging to my dick. It made us both groan. His eyes met mine and he sank back down hard, whimpering. Gods, his cock looked good, bone-hard and rubbing furious against my belly on the next downstroke; mine was buried in him, gripped so tight I wondered if he'd snap it off. "You're a perfect Spartan," I managed, running my hand down his belly, reaching for his cock. He stared at me with eyes blazing through his blonde hanging curls, tried to say something back. The way I hammered up at him and twisted his shaft in my hand wrenched away his words, forced out another moan. I pushed him up, off, rolled over on top of him; there was a frenzied, slick hot moment as our cocks rubbed together, my lips at his throat. He felt so good I hesitated, just grinding my dick into his, drawing precum from us both and slicking our lengths even more. Then he spread his legs beneath mine, yearning; I growled, grabbed them, put them on my shoulders. I fixed my eyes on the vivid disappearance of my length into his ass, watching our junction til his balls were at my stomach. Then I leaned in, proved him so wonderfully flexible, forcing those tense legs nearly behind his head. I wondered if he'd cover his own face when he came, bent into himself like this, and laughed and fucked him harder. Him on top was nice—godly, in fact, watching his Apollo frame shudder atop me—but it didn't match the scrawl on the rocks beside us; didn't fit the context. From the keening moans and the way he clutched the ground, he liked this better, too, my little hard Spartan bitch in the sand. I kissed him hard, felt him give tongue back like a proper soldier. The kiss was as much for practicality as it was desire; I'd fucked half the men in the gymnasium farther up the ridge already, but that didn't mean I needed any of them coming down here now. Not when lithe Amotion was reaching the heavens underneath me, not when I was getting closer with every throb up his gorgeous tight ass— He gasped—"Krimon!"—against my lips, toes curling over my shoulders, and his entire body went rock-rigid tense. I could feel him coming before I saw it, the pulses clenching him around me, but the sight was even better: cock swelling and twitching, thick bolts of white spattering against his chest, throat, and to my delight vividly across his face. The sight of that hitting his lips, the way he licked at it in his ecstasy—not to mention the inescapable tightening of his ass—drove me over, and he moaned anew as I flooded him with my own come, every hard jolt of my hips making him shiver some more. The last bits I marked him with, streaking across his dick, smearing us both with cum. We lay panting and happy, slowly working our soft cocks together as we kissed. The huge, engraved letters on the rock face beside us took me a week to etch, but the results were definitely worth the effort, and I reached to trace them again... "Dr. Alexander!" Came an irritable voice. The lush surroundings, hard cocks, and cum-faced Spartans faded. I was left with howling wind, a digital camera, and a colleague tapping my shoulder. "Yeah?" I turned to face him, hoping the sudden uncomfortable bulge in my jeans wasn't terribly obvious. The end of my reverie—another anthropologist, and certainly no Amotion—folded his arms. "You going to photograph those rocks, or just stare at them all day? They've got temples farther in we need to look at." I sighed and traced the letters once more, then snapped a picture. At his insistence followed him up the ridge. While he blathered about ancient gymnasiums and project funding, I stole a glance over my shoulder, took one more look at the jagged carved Greek: KRIMON FUCKED AMOTION HERE. I could see them in my mind's eye, pressed tight together. And here I was a couple thousand years late. Graffiti 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. Graffiti Moving me away a little his hands started roaming over my breasts again, and they were reacting as though his hands were old friends, blast them. Even with some space between us I could still feel his erection butting against me and I was determined that I would not look. His hands slid down over my tummy, rubbing my mons and continuing around the curve to tease my pussy, rubbing my lips, easing them apart and sliding his fingers between them. After an eternity of this, Frank turned me and urged me towards the couch, having me bend over the end of it. I just naturally braced my arms against the arm of the couch, feeling the weight of him behind me. Oh, god. His hand was between my legs, teasing me, spreading my lips, and I could feel the head of his erection brushing against me. Then it was no longer brushing against me but pushing between my lips, taking possession. I was astounded at the casual way he seemed able to just sink fully into me, transfixing me. So much for passive resistance, I thought. It hadn't helped in the slightest. I couldn't imagine how I thought it would. Came the dawn. I literally screamed with fury. "You bastard," I raged at him. "Passive resistance, my eye. You tricked me. If you hadn't said that I'd have been fighting every inch of the way." "Really? You mean that you're not the passive type? My mistake. I assume that this means you'll be fighting me from this point on?" "Damn right I will," I snapped. "I'm an idiot. I actually listened to what you said." "So now you can feel free to fight me, knowing I don't want you to. Or am I saying that to make you fight because I'll enjoy it? My, these psychological ploys gets so cumbersome, don't they?" He wasn't really doing anything at this point, providing you consider him standing there, his cock well and truly in me and his hands still playing with my breasts, not doing anything. Was he trying to get me to struggle against him now that he had started or was he trying to trick me into going passive again? How the hell was I supposed to know? Whichever it was, I wanted to do the opposite and he knew it. "So do you go passive or do you start fighting?" came his nasty inquisitive voice. "To be crude, you're fucked either way. May I make another suggestion for you to reject?" "What?!" "Just go with it and do what your body wants. It doesn't really make much difference at this stage." It made sense. It was also probably what he really wanted. What my body really wanted to do right then was turn around so I could slap his face, but that wasn't going to happen. Fucking hell, I didn't know what I wanted to do. While my mind raced trying to figure out what to do he started moving. If it wasn't hard enough trying to think while distracted by a cock just waiting, it was twice as hard trying to concentrate once the damn thing started moving. Well, I suppose it made it easier to concentrate if you were concentrating on that cock, but not if you were trying to actually think. I just gave up. Que, sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, and I was getting fucked. Almost unconsciously I felt myself responding and moving, not fighting it, just going along with what was happening. Frank didn't make any obvious show of triumph. He just carefully nursed me along, giving me a nice easy rhythm and letting me just rock contentedly along. Oddly enough, I was content. Frank felt good and I was enjoying what was happening. He didn't keep that nice easy rhythm. He slowly lifted the tempo, letting a hot passion show through, showing me who was the master. I obediently went with him, answering his demand for passion, acknowledging his mastery, knowing that in the long run, I'd triumph. Men are always exhausted, running on empty, long before the woman. Mind you, I wasn't quite so sure of that after a while. He was driving into me good and hard, and he just kept going. By now I was gasping, making those funny little noises a woman makes when a cock drives in hard, pushing hard to meet him, wondering if I'd last the distance. I wasn't that far off a climax and Frank seemed to be settling down for the long haul. I was shocked when he suddenly pulled out. Shocked, nothing, I was horrified. I was so nearly there and he'd stopped? He couldn't do this to me. Thankfully, he had no intention of just leaving me like that. He turned me around to face him, lowering me onto the couch. Then he was kissing me and driving back into me, his hands back on my breasts. (He sure seemed to like touching my breasts.) It wasn't long before I was once again happily floating towards my climax. Frank was driving in harder and harder and I was bucking under him, getting him to come as deep as possibly, relishing that long hard length as it came plunging down upon me. Then I was climaxing, clinging to him, any screams that I may have given swallowed up by his mouth on mine, feeling him jerk upon me as he reciprocated, spilling his seed in his own climax. Afterwards, when I was capable of looking around he was dressed and leaning against a wall, looking at me. I was just lying on the couch, still naked, feeling remarkable comfortable and lazy. Before either of us could say anything a buzzer rang. Frank muttered something rude and went to look outside. I don't know how he saw anything in the darkness, but he did. "Your friend, Snoopy, is back," he groused. "What is it with you women?" I jumped up and stalked over to the window and opened it wide, noisily. I heard a startled squeak and saw movement, a shadow among shadows. "Go away, Michelle," I yelled. "You're too late." I heard a laugh from outside as I slammed the window. "Now what," I demanded, looking at Frank. "It's a bit of a puzzle," said Frank. "I promised to punish one of you if you returned to try to make mischief, and you did and I did. However, Snoopy has also visited, in a separate incident, and she's not here for me to punish. I'm sorry, but it looks as though the selective punishment will fall on you again. Good thing you're already undressed, isn't it." He had to be kidding. Oh, dear. From the look he was giving me, he wasn't. He was already getting undressed again. What the hell did I do now? "If you're wondering what you should be doing now," drawled Frank, "perhaps you could consider passive resistance, and see how it works this time."