Kinky: Three Men, One Collision

by Peter Butler

  ***

  The combination of the night's excitement and his bout of stomach cramps and diarrhea had one major benefit; it had cured Larry of any drunkenness. But with the newfound clarity had also come the realty of the enormity of the destruction that he had just done to this property. He tried to reconcile his action as a proper response to Zac's ongoing attacks on his property, but part of his mind was not convinced. Larry was still sitting on the toilet trying to figure out his next move when he suddenly froze. He had heard muffled voices and what sounded like a small scream. The sounds were either coming from outside... or, from the living room. He made a terrified grimace with his mouth. He thought the game was up for him, anyone looking into the living room would see, not only his spray-painting handiwork, but also his bag of paint-tins. And to top-off his problems, he was nowhere near ready to leave the toilet.

  He waited... but to his astonishment no one came storming through the house in search of the vandal responsible for the desecration.

  The urgent, muffled voices continued for about a minute... and then they stopped, which confused Larry greatly. Surely they could see that something bad had happened. Surely they would investigate. Then it came to him. They knew he was still inside and had assumed he was dangerous. They had gone to call the police. If that deduction was correct he had a small window of opportunity to escape while they were back at the main house.

  Ready or not he had to leave the toilet, he had no choice. Thankfully his stomach cramps had ceased, but unbelievably his bowel motion was still sporadically productive. He wiped himself as best he could and stuffed a fresh wad of toilet paper into his underwear, then pulled up his pants and made his way out of the toilet. Larry was well down the hall when he stopped dead. He went back and flushed the toilet, the thought of not doing that was more than he could live with. The noise of the water rushing away his mess was the final clincher - if they didn't already know he was there, they certainly did now. He quickly washed his hands then made his way down the short corridor that led back to the living room and eased his head around the corner.

  He could see no one.

  He tried to see outside but the difference between the lit interior and the dark exterior was too great. Time was now his enemy as well as the people who had discovered his presence; he had to make the move, he had no choice. Larry walked boldly out into the living room and bent to pick up his shopping bag full of spray-cans, as he bent his bowels delivered another blow to his dignity and he felt something gooey wet straight through his makeshift paper nappy-pad. He tentatively touched behind himself and felt dampness on his trousers. With no time to worry about it, let alone deal with it, he clenched both his backside and his face and walked awkwardly to the door. He glanced back before he opened the door and saw at least two small brown stains on the carpet he had just walked over.

  Oh God! Please let that be mud from my shoes.

  Outside, Larry looked anxiously for his chasers, but couldn't see anyone. Assuming his first guess was correct they were back at the main house, already making the 911 call. He ran. As quickly as a man can run wearing a makeshift nappy while he was still occasionally emptying his bowels. The look of horror mixed with disgust on Larry's face was hidden by the darkness but he was sure his cheeks must be bright red beacons that could be easily seen in the night as red streaks charging across the lawn. Larry raced towards the garden-bed and its dark clump of bushes that grew at the edge of a distant, familiar large tree.

  He was panting hard as he hurled the bag of cans up into the air and over the fence. He had forgotten about the van parked on the other side; they landed on top of it with a resounding boom, bang and crash, that echoed alarmingly though the still night air.

  Larry embraced the tree-trunk like it was his rescuer. He climbed in steady, but cautious, small steps until he was at the branch that fed out over the fence. He cautiously eased his weight across it, his makeshift gang-plank somehow looked more precarious from this direction, but he had no time to delay. He climbed clumsily onto it, this time he found it easier to lean low and almost lie along it, leaving his feet hooked over it behind him. He used his arms to pull himself along, inch-by-inch, finding that safer than overly involving his feet and legs. It was murder on his genitals, but he was beyond caring about pain. As he slowly slid over the branch towards the wall the extent of the mess in his pants was made clearer to him. The toilet paper had stopped providing any absorption and was now just making everything worse by beginning to tear apart with each small forward move he made. Like small sticky-notes, the pieces seemed to be working their way down his legs and around his crotch, inside his trousers.

  If Larry wasn't so miserable he might possibly laugh at his predicament. In his wildest dreams he would never have believed he would find himself fifteen feet off the ground straddling a branch of a large tree, half covered in shit.

  That realization was enough to render Larry as miserable as he could ever remember being. And he still had a long way to go before he was out of his mess.

  Literally.

  ***

  Emily led the way, holding Dillon's hand as she moved from darkened area to darkened area. Dillon loved that she was holding his hand, and was impressed at how skillfully she negotiated the terrain and then he remembered she had been Zac's girlfriend and been here before. Maybe many times. That thought depressed him and he relaxed his grip on the bag of spray-cans and it fell to the ground with a noisy clatter of metal against metal.

  Emily rounded on him, her forefinger held over her lips, signifying the need for quiet. As if he needed to be reminded. But when he looked closely he could see she was smiling. She was enjoying this adventure immensely, which in turn lightened Dillon's mood. Hand-in-hand they made their way to the left side of the mansion which had an expanse of bare wall in the middle of two large bay-windows, both clothed in shut curtains. The rooms they hid were in darkness.

  Emily signaled that he should put the bag on the ground, then she pulled a rubber glove out of the box and expertly slid her hand inside it, releasing the stretched wrist end with a snap which caused Dillon's eyebrows to rise in surprise. The gloved hand reached into the sack and extracted a spray-can, then another and another, which she lined up beside her on the ground. In the minimal light she strained to see the colors she had chosen, eventually giving up. It didn't really matter anyway, she had no plans to be the next Picasso.

  The area wasn't lit, the only source of light being the crescent moon high overhead. It would have to be enough. She began work, waving her arm around in dramatic flourishes, gradually getting better at making the lines look professional as she became more comfortable with the amount of pressure required to work the button on each can.

  Dillon watched her work unfold. His bruised jaw dropped open as it became clear what she was painting on the side of the house belonging to the richest lawyer in town.

  ***

  Larry grabbed the top of the wall like a long lost friend, which in a way it was. It signified that he was now on a solid footing and about to leave the property and begin his run from the police. He had stopped worrying about the awful, smelly, sticky feeling that dominated the lower half of his body, he had managed to convince his mind it was mud he was covered in. Just very smelly mud, nothing else...

  As long as he didn't allow his brain to try and delve deeper into that subject he would be okay, he accomplished that by concentrating his thoughts on his escape from imminent capture. He paused for a moment as he lay on top of the fence, fiercely clutching both sides to keep anchored to it and he listened for the sound of distant sirens. He heard nothing, but his imagination knew better. They were out there - he just couldn't hear them... yet. With no time to waste, Larry climbed to his knees, then carefully stood with shaking legs, on the top of the wall. Procrastination was not an option, he boldly jumped across the open void to the top of his van, the sound of his feet landing on the metal roof resembled a metal oil-drum being beaten. The sound repeated when he fell
forward onto his knees and hands. He gathered up the bag, crawled to the edge and dropped it over the side adding more noise to his escape, then Larry quickly climbed down after it.

  Seconds later the engine coughed to life with its familiar puff of smoke and the van was accelerating down the road to freedom. Larry held his breath to minimize the awful smell that wafted up to his nostrils. He wound down the side-window, gratefully poking his head out into the fresh air and refilling his lungs. He held his breath and wound down the passenger side window creating a flow of fresh air through the cabin. It helped - but not enough. Thankfully for Larry he was the only driver on the roads he traveled, as anyone driving behind would have been confused by the driver's head popping out and back inside every few seconds. If they too had their window unwound their confusion would have disappeared as soon as they drove into the cloud of excrement smell that Larry left as he sped through the suburban streets. The one thing he was grateful for was the old towel he kept in the van to wipe his hands on, its role had been expanded; it was now stretched out beneath him providing a small amount of protection to the vinyl upholstery.

  Larry began to plan his next moves as he drove. His overwhelming desire was to get home and get into his shower. But he had decided there was no way he would enter the house in this state, that meant he had to strip completely naked on the lawn and make a run for the door. He contemplated using the garden faucet to wash himself but dismissed the idea as the cold water would probably kill him: there was no little tap with a red H alongside of it out there. Everything he was wearing would be left outside and, in the morning, doused in gasoline and incinerated. He hated the wastage but the thought of what would be required to wash everything was too much... even for Larry.

  To clean his body he was going to try something bold. He intended to count the required number of seconds to wash each part of his body, then step out of the stream of water, then back into it. Then he could start to count afresh as if he had just begun a new shower. This was a win-win situation: the laws of washing oneself would be obeyed and, after a few cakes of soap had been reduced to suds, he would no longer be in a shit-load of trouble. In the glow coming from the console Larry managed a wry congratulatory smile to himself in the rear-view mirror; It seems, even in extreme situations, his exceptional brain could be relied upon to come up with some humor.

  Larry stuck his head out the window and took another breath of fresh air, as the smelly white Transit van sped forward, getting smaller and smaller as it slowly blended with the darkness...

  ***

  Standing behind Emily in the dim light, Dillon was able to appreciate her fine form. Not only with the "artwork" she was creating, but also her anatomical qualities - in particular her cute little ass that wiggled whenever she stretched to complete a stroke with the spray-can. He hadn't noticed until now that she had dressed for this assignment: a skin hugging plain black T-shirt covered her top half, one of Emily's signature minis covered her ass, it was also jet black - and held a pair of scissors in the pocket. He had no doubts that they would also be black-handled. Low-cut black ankle-high socks poked, shyly, over the tops of her black Nike trainers. She was the definition of a modern day cat-burglar but Dillon's eyes seemed to be stuck on her beautiful, shapely legs. They were not black, and even in the almost non-existent light seemed to shine with a lustrous inviting glow. It didn't surprise him that he was having such thoughts, he had admired every part of her body while lying in his bed in the dark. Even the parts he had never seen. Particularly those parts.

  Standing behind her allowed him to massage his balls without drawing looks or a comment. The shooting pains and the intense throbbing had settled down to become a dull ache. He made a face in the darkness as he realized they felt slightly larger than normal. He hoped she hadn't done any permanent damage.

  Out of nowhere a loud banging noise shattered the quiet night, and they both instantly froze in fear. It came from the far side of the property, the noise was nearby but not close and they looked at each other questioningly. Seconds later another noise came from the same direction, but this noise continued, it was a rumbling sound and they realized it was a car's motor firing to life and idling in one of the surrounding streets.

  'Emily, we should go,' he whispered urgently.

  She nodded, but held up her finger and turned back to the wall and continued painting her version of a bird - not the ones in the sky, the hand type that you flip to someone who has pissed you off.

  Dillon shook his head at what she had done. As swollen as his balls were, he had to grudgingly admit that hers were probably bigger.

  She turned to face him and he could see the grin on her face as she said, 'Done..! You like?'

  Dillon nodded vigorously and grinned back, along with the words she wrote beside it, he couldn't imagine a more fitting work of graffiti. 'You're as crazy as a cut snake.'

  She laughed, a deep sexy laugh, then added in a whisper, 'But you love me anyway!'

  The words hung in the air in front of Dillon as surely as if they were carved in stone; an accusation, a declaration or a statement of fact? You love me.. The words had been said - by her, and he didn't know if that meant she loved him too, or she just knew he loved her - and she liked that. Or, maybe it was just a throw away line - a joke. It was so confusing, everything was the wrong way around.

  The smile disappeared from his face and was replaced by a look of uncertainty. The best response he could manage was a pathetic little nod of agreement.

  Emily seemed not to be aware of the significance of her words and began replacing the spray-cans into the bag. She pulled the box of rubber gloves out and handed them to him, then she picked up the sack in her right hand and took hold of Dillon's hand in her left and led him towards the front of the mansion.

  The lighting here was significant and Emily expertly hugged the edge of the house, making it unlikely anyone looking out a window could see them. She edged towards the front door, which had neatly trimmed flowering bushes growing on both sides of a wide portico with bold garishly decorated columns supporting an impressive roof with recessed lighting. Emily stayed inside the garden bed avoiding the lit area until she found a bush with some room underneath it. She pushed the sack under it, but left it protruding enough to be spotted by a gardener of even someone looking from the front door.

  She looked at Dillon and mouthed the word "perfect".

  Dillon nodded back, although he was unsure exactly what was so perfect about what she had done.

  She still held his hand and when she began to make her way back the way they had just come, Dillon found himself following willingly. All decisions were being made for him at the moment and he acquiesced like a small child. He was still deep in thought about the sudden appearance of the L word.

  When they had moved away from the lit area Emily led him to a dark bushy place that was far enough away from the house that they could talk without the fear of being overheard.

  'How did you get in here, Dillon?' She had let go of his hand and was facing him. The look on her face had become serious.

  'I climbed over the wall fronting Briapatch Crescent.'

  She looked impressed with his efforts. 'It's a pretty high wall.'

  'I used my bike to get half-way up, then climbed the rest of the way.'

  'Nice work.' She smiled at him. 'But how were you going to get out?' She shook her head in mock dismay, then she laughed at the look on his face, 'A shame the rest of your plan wasn't as brilliant as your note,' she added with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  He wanted to defend himself but having just watched the potential punishment she had brought down on Zac, he was forced to agree with her, his plan completely sucked. He gave her a wry smile and a shrug of his shoulders. 'How did you get in?'

  'The way all the common people get in - through the gardener's gate at the rear.'

  'Don't tell me it was unlocked?'

  'No...' she said, drawing out the word, giving Dillon the impression she su
ddenly regretted introducing the subject. 'I know the entry code. Remember I went out with the scumbag asshole for a few months.' She leaned over to Dillon and gave him a little kiss on the lips as her way of apologizing for mentioning her past relationship. 'We should get out of here ASAP. I have a feeling things are going to get frantic, soon.' Once again she took Dillon by the hand and led him away.

  His mind was all over the place. She was holding his hand again now, there was no need for that, he could easily just follow her. She must want to hold it. Then she tells him she has visited Zac here and has a secret way in, suggesting she visited regularly. That realization hurt him more than the knee in the balls. He tried to rationalize her visits with the thought that they probably just watched movies or played video-games or studied together. Yeah! Sure... And then, she had kissed him. Ironically, that was Dillon's first real girl kiss. She wouldn't do that if she didn't like him. It was on the lips, too, not on the cheek or forehead which would be appropriate if she was just being polite. Crap! Trying to get inside a girls brain is even harder than trying to get...

  'How are your balls, Dillon?' Emily asked in an innocent girlie voice, braking into Dillon's musings.

  He had never had a conversation with a girl about his balls and felt his cheeks color-up at the thought of responding. 'Um... Their fine, thank you.'

  She stopped at the gate and turned to face him before she opened it. She looked him squarely in the eyes and said, 'Oh... I'm very sad to hear that.'

  He was confused. 'No... I said they're good.'

  'I heard you, Dillon,' she raised her eyebrows at him, suggestively. 'I feel really bad about hurting you, and if you were still in pain I was going to offer you..' she opened her eyes wide and gave him a questioning look, '...first-aid. That's why I kept the box of rubber gloves,' she said, adding a sly smile as she pointed to his other hand.