The Torment of Billy Callaway by the Bully Tyson Rutledge
This story contains themes of incest, cruelty and minor violence. As such, reader discretion is advised.
I
Maria’s pace was nervous and uneasy as her high heels clacked against the hot, Canton pavement. Seeking out her son’s daily tormentor had been a last resort for her, and not an act she had envisioned herself undertaking at any point of her life. When she finally admitted to herself that it was the only course left to her, it had been after trying just about everything else she could think of.
Maria pulled out her hand mirror as she walked. She wanted to make sure she looked pristinely presentable considering the grave nature of her current quest. She was half Latin-American, her thick, black curls gently bobbing down the length of her head, gliding over her silky-soft, tanned shoulders and partly along her smooth back. Her large bosom was concealed only partly by her Bordeaux-red dress, which ceased its descend down the length of her toned body a bit over half way past her thighs, and her cleavage was pronounced. Concealing herself further would have been completely unbearable under the scorching Georgia summer sun, even now, fading as it was, leaving the horizon ablaze with nuances of magenta and crimson.
Maria tried to keep fit, but having birthed two daughters and a boy, such an endeavor was not without struggles, and her views of her own body were harsh – especially considering that what she thought of as extraneous weight, most young people would label as Maria simply being “thicc”: she was fit, but had ample curves, with an ass perfectly fit for twerking, though should anyone tell Maria, she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what the word even meant.
In essence, while she was a proper lady and a mom of three, her figure was as worthy of the word ‘MILF’ as any woman south of that Dixon line.
As Maria touched up her lipstick, her thoughts meandered back to the task at hand: confronting the father of her son’s bully, Tyson Rutledge. She had, of course, started by contacting the school and had spoken to every single teacher Billy had. All of them had given assurances that they would look into it and all of them had at a minimum had a talk with that… that thug, about him ceasing the relentless bullying of her son, Billy Callaway. Sometimes, as was the case with the young, empathic and pedagogically minded Mrs. Dawson, said talk would occur with both Tyson and Billy in the room, as the teacher’s approach was to reach a sensible understanding with the two kids, using methods of diplomacy and urging the boys to settle their differences peacefully. At other times, as with the stern, elderly Mr. Corbin, a grave lecture had been given to Tyson alone. Once or twice, as when Maria desperately reached out to the Principal, Mr. Davenport, threats of expulsion had been the method employed against the young Rutledge.
None of these traditional methods had worked. As far as Maria had gathered, the primary reason was that Tyson Rutledge was simply more sly and cunning than the base and immoral bullying he exposed her son to would otherwise suggest; Tyson was popular and feared enough that even with witnesses to some of the acts, those witnesses would never “snitch” as the youths called it, and Tyson mostly stuck to inflicting distress on Billy in non-violent ways, such as pulling down Billy’s pants in front of the cheerleading squad, threatening him to hand over lunch money, stealing his clothes after gym class, mocking him in front of the class while the teacher’s back was turned or humiliating the boy in various ways – especially in front of girls. Even when it did get violent, Tyson would punch Billy in ways that did not leave marks.
Most harrowingly for both Billy and his mother, however, was the almost sophisticated mental torture Billy was subjected to. Once, Billy had a crush on the school darling Annamae Ballard, her long, almost silver-golden hair hanging down in ringlets, her voice a smooth, Georgian twang. In a display of bravery Maria Callaway seldom – if ever – witnessed from her son, he had, somehow, one day drummed up the courage to ask the cheerleader and president of the school’s poetry club out on a date. She had declined, which did not surprise Maria in the slightest, since for all the love she carried for her son, she had to admit that the beautiful, caring and naive southern belle was hardly in his league. However, even if she might have refused Billy regardless, her stated reason was based on a school rumor, started by Tyson, naturally, that Billy was a homosexual, and Annamae, sweetheart that she was, had encouraged Billy to exit the closet rather than ask his female classmates out on dates to hide the truth from others and perhaps even himself. In despair and humiliation, Billy had tried all he could to convince Annamae that he was as straight as they came, but with his tiny frame, nearly white-blonde hair, gentle nature and timid disposition – not to mention istanbul escorts the fact that he was a virgin and no one at school had ever seen him get touched, must less kissed, by a girl – the rumor simply made too much sense. Even untrue as it was, the entire school took it more as established fact than contested hearsay, and Annamae Ballard certainly wasn’t going to be part of the boy’s self-denial. In fact, the popular girl was so genuine in her desire to “help” Billy that she had even volunteered to be by his side if he decided to come out publicly – so that everyone in the school would know Billy had her support and was not to be teased and bullied over such a trifle. After all, she knew that as a classic, southern state, groups of Georgia’s youth still held fairly draconian views of LGBT-people and while Annamae’s parents – unlike the liberally-minded Maria and her husband, Noah Callaway – were staunch conservatives, Annamae herself was simply too much of an angel to adhere to such severe and outdated beliefs.
Billy had been crushed by Annamae’s dismissal, but even more so by the kindness and warmth with which she had delivered it. He had nearly cried himself to sleep in Maria’s arms that night, and, once again, Maria had felt the paradoxical emotions of overwhelming pity and love for her darling boy, tainted by an ever-so-slight pang of scorn – scorn stemming from the fact that a boy his age would cry so hard and then fall asleep in his mother’s bed. More even than her feelings of pain at seeing her beloved boy suffering, she felt deeply ashamed whenever this tinge of scorn reared its ugly head in her emotional core. After all, she knew intimately that the boy was not responsible for his emotions, and that these emotions were entirely understandable given the exceedingly harsh treatment he was exposed to on an almost daily basis.
He simply was not at fault, couldn’t possibly BE at fault, and she dismissed the tiny fragment of her soul trying to hold him responsible as emotional dark matter, left there by her own traditionalist, Columbian father. Maria Callaway still despised her father for the sheltered upbringing she had rebelled against. She may have long since left the one or two years of wild youth she had lived out in pure spite of her father’s wishes behind, but she still carried an ounce of that rebellious spirit in her, and she hated the part of herself that knew how he would have reacted to her son’s bullying: by calling her son weak and spineless, not man enough to face up to a tyrant.
At least, this is what she told herself in her moments of clarity. On dark days, she caught herself wondering whether Noah and herself had shown the boy too much leniency, contributing to his meek demeanor. She always dismissed such notions, however, as old-fashioned impulses that didn’t align in the slightest with her modern views of family values.
As well, Billy’s gentle nature and connectedness to his emotions was the exact reason she loved her husband; Noah too was unassertive and caring, a kindly, tender man still so considerate and forbearing it was plain for all to see from whom Billy had inherited these… qualities.
When the teachers and the school system had failed her, Maria had turned to private options instead. Psychologists to ease the mental burden on her son and private tutoring so that her darling boy could drop some classes and thus lessen the exposure he suffered while being at school. She had even hired a coach to teach her son to be more assertive and stand up to Tyson, much to the dismay of her husband and not a course of action she would have condoned herself under normal circumstances, but nevertheless an option she had taken out of pure desperation. It had taken but four months for the mental coach to throw in the towel and admit that he simply wasn’t up to the task of teaching confidence and self-assuredness to a boy to whom the very concepts seemed alien and unintelligible.
Now, she knew, she had only one option left: confront the bully and his father herself. If that didn’t work, she would have to defy her son’s burning wish not to leave the school, as he loved his teachers and was outright frightened of overwhelming changes. She saw no other courses left to her and her son, however, if the confrontation didn’t work.
Her son had tried to talk her out of talking to Tyson Rutledge, humiliated by the thought of his mother standing up to his bully. He had pleaded with her, but she loved him too much to let the bullying continue, and once again, when the boy finally accepted that this was going to happen, without even putting up much a fight, that ugly, corrupted hint of scorn towards him had appeared in the deep recesses of Maria’s mind, though she quickly dismissed it and replaced it with empathy for her son’s plight.
II
As that thought dissipated from her conscious mind, she realized she had reached her destination, even if she was in disbelief at first. The cute, Georgian abode in front of istanbul eskort her was nothing like the unkept residence she had imagined a brute such as Tyson being raised in. The facade was pristine, nearly marble white, and had an almost antebellum architectural air about it, even as small and cozy as it was. The garden gleamed with steady care, lush Hydrangeas and spotless climbing roses competing for the real estate of the small, but well-kept, front lawn and terrace. The presumable source of the garden’s immaculate condition stood with his back turned to her, dressed in a grey tank top and black cargo trousers stained with just a bit of dirt from the garden work. Sweat glistened from the man’s bulging biceps, and though Maria didn’t notice and would later deny it to herself, she skipped breathing for a few seconds at the bare sight of the mysterious gardener’s raw, unfettered masculinity, as the first droplet of excited sweat forced its way through her skin and into full display on her forehead.
Simply a result of the hot Georgian evening, she assured herself.
Having heard her approach as a result of her clacking heels, the man turned, and Maria once again skipped inhaling for a full second at the sight of his well-kempt visage; short, jet-black hair messed up slightly from the hard work, pearls of working sweat gleaming from his square brow, and the suggestion of a deep, dark five o’clock shadow on his chin. Unable to wrestle herself from the complete surprise of the entire scene compared to her expectations, Maria stood almost paralyzed as the unmoving, penetrating gaze of the man’s eyes met hers.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”, the gardener said with just a hint of southern twang in his voice – distinct enough for it to be noticeable, but subtle enough for it to be charming rather than quaint.
Maria, suddenly awakening to the duty before her, straightened her body and took on the sternest countenance she knew how to conjure, and spoke: “Mr. Rutledge, I presume? I am here to talk to your son, Tyson. He has been bullying my son Billy incessantly, and after tonight, I expect that behavior to cease. Immediately.” Proud of herself for maintaining an unwavering stance and expressing herself with such flawless rigidity, she met the determined gaze from the man without blinking.
“Has he now?” came the response from her opponent, spoken in a deep, steady baritone that immediately set Maria’s legs slightly a-tremble, losing the staunch composure she had felt so sure of her ability to maintain just moments ago.
“Well,” the tall, handsome man continued, “I suppose we’ll have to discuss this further. May I invite you in?” The tone of that last sentence had shifted to something approaching welcoming neighborliness, even if the depth of the vocal still inspired a modicum of trepidation in Maria. Taken aback by the sudden friendliness, she almost instinctively replied: “Yes, Mr. Rutledge, I believe you may.”
Surprising Maria once again, the man offered his palm to Maria face up, so that she could place her own palm in it and be led gently up the stairs to the terrace and further into the welcoming, candle-lit hallway. “I apologize for the dim lighting, ma’am. I prefer to work by candlelight rather than harsh electrical light.” Maria nodded politely and asked: “Should I leave my shoes here?”
“No need,” came the swift reply. “It so happens that Mrs. Rutledge’s heels offer the wood panels of our home no such abeyance, so I’m confident your amiable feet pressing down those ankle strap heels of yours won’t add much to the damage already caused.”
Though the thinly veiled compliment of her feet would normally have Maria raise a brow, the words were delivered in such a soft-spoken, inviting manner that only her subconscious even registered it, stressed by the entire situation as she was – and, although Maria herself didn’t actively notice, the polite praise of this often-unnoticed part of her body pleased her greatly, making an almost giddy, schoolgirlish sensation spill out into the recesses of her mind.
The man let her into a candlelit, snug living room, the notes of a soft, seductive Pistol Annies-tune emanating from a nearby stereo, and gestured for her to sit at one end of a lambskin-laden sofa, while he sat down at the other end, no more than a meter between them.
“So, Mr. Rutledge, like I said, I’m here to speak to you about your son, Ty-” the man opposite her suddenly interrupted Maria, his smooth, dark voice adopting a somewhat playful tone:
“I’m afraid Mr. Rutledge isn’t home, and neither is Mrs. Rutledge for that matter. They often leave for long trips overseas, and leave Tyson at home to care for the house and himself.”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “I see. If so, then who might you be, sir?”
A playful smile danced across the stranger’s lips, and try as she might, Maria couldn’t stop herself from noticing that besides being traditionally attractive, the man sat across from her had the perfect combination of youthful eskort istanbul composure and world-worn grit that makes a man truly handsome.
“I would be Tyson, ma’am,” the man said politely with an unmistakably mischievous grin.
Not allowing herself to be shocked by neither the startling fact that this flower-tending, fetching and well-spoken man was her son’s tormentor or the slight insolence of the revelation, Maria quickly composed herself. “Tyson. I see. Well, then we might as well begin, young man. The thing is-“
Once again, the man… the boy…? now revealed as Tyson Rutledge, interrupted her: “I apologize for interrupting you, ma’am, twice now. I’m sure you’re eager to say your piece, and I assure you I will listen intently, but I’ve been working the garden all day long, and I would like to relax with my evening ritual – that is to say, a glass of wine. If you don’t mind?” Flustered, Maria meekly responded with “S-sure, Tyson, but then we really have t-“
“Bless your heart, ma’am,” sounded the evening’s third interruption, as Tyson briefly left the living room and came back with a half-drunk bottle of wine and two glasses, placing one in front Maria and one in front himself. The young man proceeded with pouring wine into both glasses, not giving Maria the chance to decline.
“Now,” Tyson said, “tell me what y’all came here for and I promise, we’ll talk this out.”
Finally given the opportunity to take charge of the situation, Maria figuratively punched herself for the sudden bout of speechlessness that took hold of her. What was her plan? What was she even going to say? She was here to scold a brat, but how would she even go about such a task confronted by this… this man. For all intends and purposes what should be a young boy acted like an adult, conveyed himself with the confident attitude of an equal, and now she was going to, what, give him a stern talking to? The entire idea of it suddenly seemed absurd to Maria.
The last couple of years had been a harrowing experience, constantly worrying for her son – not only his present troubles at school, but also what it might mean for his future, as bullying is no stranger to the workplace either. And now, with the intention of confronting a poorly raised ruffian, she found herself in the presence of a charming young man, who despite prior interruptions now sat eagerly laid back in the sofa, sending her a subtle, pleasant smile that communicated that he was ready to listen – and hear – everything she had to say. The absurdity of the situation was not even remotely dampened by the fact that Maria was exceedingly aware that she had attempted to avert her eyes from the man’s burgeoning biceps several times, and that the tight tank top revealing a ludicrously toned chest was impossible to not stare at. The worst part was catching herself stealing glances at Tyson’s barely visible but perfectly shaped six-pack, which had been ever so slightly revealed as he laid back in the couch and the tank-top mercilessly gave up trying to cover a good two centimeters of his well-built stomach.
Determined, Maria closed her eyes and recalled all the horrible acts Tyson had subjected her son to. She thought of the beatdowns, she thought of the wet pants pranks and she thought of one intensely humiliating prank, where Tyson had one of the… the sluts! in his coterie convince Billy that she would kiss her if he painted his nails and wore make-up, only to drag him back into class, having the entirety of the school laughing at the poor boy walking around looking like a painted whore for the entire school day. And then, she thought about Tyson deliberately seeking out the girls that Billy liked, kissing them publicly, in front of Billy. She could almost taste her son’s humiliation, and the image succeeding in reminding her of the evening’s mission and the pure, unbridled empathy she felt for her son’s hardships. In fact, now that she knew what Tyson looked like, envisioning these cruel acts against her boy was much easier. Visualizing those bulging arms gripping the tiny, female frames of the girls her boy fancied, the schoolgirls feeling the slight scratching sensation of Tyson’s five o’clock shadow, him pressing his lips against theirs as they trembled with youthful exuberance, held by his firm…
Maria suddenly opened her eyes wide. Flushed with embarrassment, she instinctively grabbed the wine glass in front of her and chucked a large gulp from it, spilling a bit on her lip, which she quickly removed with her fingers. She turned her head slightly to meet the curious gaze of her son’s bully, now leaning back in a waiting posture.
“Ma’am…?” he asked, almost politely if not for the ever-present, mischievous edge in his intonation.
Get a grip, Maria. Focus.
“Young man. I cannot express the distaste I have for the manner with which you have been conducting yourself as regards my boy, Billy. Ever since you came to his school, you have been nothing but a… but a terror. A miscreant! My son is the most harmless, dear creature on God’s earth, and you have b-been… been… defiling him and his good nature with your tricks! Your brutishness! Why? Why must you torture my son so? Why have you selected him for this… this hell you so clearly enjoy putting other people through?”