Two Southern Gentlemen Ch. 03

Author's note: Sorry, I was hoping to get to some sex by this chapter, but it's going to have to take just a little bit longer. Hopefully the wait will be worth it!

Content/trigger warning: This series contains bullying, homophobic language, and non-consensual sexual acts, but they are integral to the plot and character development so please take them in context.

3. JESSE

"Well, well, well, what have we here?"

I wake with a start at both the voice and the water dripping over me.

"Time to wakey wakey, sunshine," the voice says.

I recognize him even before my eyes are open, and my body shifts to instant alertness.

"What the fuck?!" I yelp as I half crouch and scramble for my clothes. They were right here. They should be right here. Why aren't they here? Where the fuck are my clothes??

Finally I look up and there he is. Dusty. King of the School's Assholes. He's smiling and pointing silently over his shoulder at my clothes lying on the far side of this bit of shore. For half a second I entertain the thought of making a dash for them but reluctantly remember that Dusty is a star football player and there's no chance I'd make it.

"Hoo whee! Lyin' out in your altogether? Whatever would Preacher say!"

Dusty stands near me gloating, and almost without thinking I desperately grasp at the only other option, which is to ignore my lack of clothes for the moment and instead try to squirm back out through the underbrush. I make a dive for the spot, which I'm sure Dusty wouldn't have noticed yet, but it's just too awkward and I'm too tall and not fast enough to wriggle far enough, and before I know it Dusty's grabbed my ankle and is pulling my right leg hard, dragging my naked body over the rough ground.

"Now, now," he says coolly. His strength is apparent as it seems to take no effort whatsoever to pull me back and then keep me in place.

"Why in such a hurry, honey?"

It's that fake sweet talk and that fake sweet voice that always really gets to me, even more than the easy way he flips me onto my back, more than the weight of his body, which is now painfully pinning my chest down flat, more than his hand backhanding me hard across the face. But not hard enough to give me any bruises, no, of course not.

"We're just gettin' started," he says with a voice as sickeningly sweet as a Southern iced tea.

"Get offa me!" I struggle to get out, but then his arm is pushing down on my neck and I feel like my goddamn windpipe is getting crushed. Dusty is patient and seems to not even need to make any effort to keep me down. By now I've learned that with Dusty when you're so supremely outmatched it hurts more to struggle against him than to just accept whatever punishment he wants to dish out. Well, you would think I should've learned that by now, but something in me keeps resisting and I keep trying to push him away anyway.

"Now I suppose you coulda done a whole lotta weight trainin' since the summer started," Dusty drawls slowly with amusement as my struggles gradually lessen as my strength gives out. "But somehow I still just don't think you're any match for me. Huh? Ready to behave, sugar?"

Dusty is leaning his face down to mine, getting close enough that even near-sighted me can clearly see the devilish expression in his eyes.

"I'm on the football team, the wrestlin' team, and you're in what? The Robotics Club? Speech and Debate? Yearbook?"

I am, in fact, in none of those. Prefer to be on my own, and don't have time for them anyway, what with having to watch the kids all the time. But of course I don't bother to correct him. By this point we're face to face, inches apart, his breath warm and smelling of beer, and I've all but given up fighting back. But just because I've resigned myself to my fate doesn't mean my spirit's been broken. Never.

"Fuck you," I manage to grunt out at him.

"Aw, you didn't miss me, sunshine?" he says. He leans towards my ear. "I missed you," he says softly and sinisterly.

My mind has been racing. Looks like it's only Dusty and not his whole idiot crew. I might still have a chance. I quickly change tactics and suddenly shrug myself upwards to get his arm off my throat and then try to wriggle myself on to my side so that I can try to slip out from under him. Maybe if I can get into the water quick enough... Of course it's futile, though, and like that Dusty is immediately responding by punching me in the gut like a damn punching bag.

"Uh!" Somehow a stray thought surfaces in my brain that the sound of air being forcibly punched out of your lungs is something that probably a lot of people have never experienced. Lucky them.

One strangled breath, and then "Uh!" Dusty's punching me in the gut again.

"Jesse, my very own personal punchin' bag. You know, I was just startin' to think I wouldn't have any fun all summer."

"Uh!" Who was it that said good things come in threes? Bad things, I've noticed, also tend to come in threes. "Uh!" Or fours. "Uh!" And then the pain prevents me from keeping track of how many times he wails on me. Fuck! Damn sadistic fuck!

And then just as I feel like I'm going to pass out from not being able to breathe the weight is suddenly lifted and I'm left desperately gasping for air like a drowning man. When I've come to my senses enough that I can look up, I see Dusty sitting back and watching me like I'm a prime-time special TV series finale, cool as a cucumber, a smile on his face as he watches me groggily trying to half sit up on my elbows.

"Uhh..." I try to stifle a groan and half-consciously checking my ribs, sure some of them must be broken. In between ragged breaths and through a haze of searing pain I glance up at him scornfully. "You reek of beer." A couple more ragged breaths. "Where are your asshole buddies?"

Dusty stands up, still keeping an eye on me in case I try to run again. "Just you and me today, sunshine," he says.

My bravado is spent for the moment, and when I can finally breathe somewhat normally I find I can only sit and look at him dully. God, what an asshole. I notice irrelevant details, you know the way that always happens? He's got a light dusting of a blonde beard now, which isn't allowed at school. He's just got swim trunks on, and I've never seen him shirtless before but, of course, he's ripped. Perfectly muscled arms and abs, strong legs. Even with the couple of inches I've grown he's still a little taller than me. He has looks like a damn Adonis (not like he would even know what that meant), but with a mind like a goddamn sadistic devil bastard fuckwad.

"I was just thinkin' about how Joe and I made you eat dirt that one time," Dusty says as he paces in front of me. "Do you remember that?"

Of course I remember, you dick. "Now wasn't that fun?" Yeah, a real treat, a real grand ol' time for the whole goddammed family. Better than a trip to Disney World.

Despite my inner dialogue, I can't help but feel nervous, although I refuse to let it show. Who was the first villain who found out how mesmerizing and dread-inducing pacing could be? Maybe it was cats pacing in front of mice. Or even earlier. Maybe it dates back to the Snake slithering his hypnotic dance back and forth and back and forth in front of Eve.

"Hmm, let's see," Dusty is saying. My attention immediately snaps back. "What would be better than that?" he thinks out loud. "What would be even more fun?"

Dusty stops and smiles an exaggerated big and enthusiastic smile. "I know! You wanted your clothes back, right?"

My glare shoots red hot daggers at him, but I don't say anything. I've resigned myself to his sadism, but I definitely don't have to play his little games.

Just as I was thinking that, Dusty surprises me by quickly smacking me on the side of my head with his fist so hard that it knocks me down on the other side.

"I can't hear you!" Dusty taunts. His eyes are growing more wild, more dangerous, his voice getting louder and less controlled. Clearly he's losing his patience at my continued disobedience.

"Fuck! Fuck!" I exclaim involuntarily and try to remember what the hell he was talking about. "Yeah. Yeah," I mumble as I try to clear my head of the Looney Tunes stars that are clouding my vision. "Uh, yes, I want my clothes back." You sick fuck, I add in my head. When is this going to be over, dear Lord, and what the hell have I done to deserve this? I find myself thinking. So much for my bit of paradise. So much for the Lord watching over for me. So much for the Lord giving a single damn fuck about me.