She’s a Bully
Millie Dynamite
She’s a Bully
He’s a small, fearful, white dude, and she’s a black, bully girl!
Millie Dynamite
Bookapy User License
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go to Bookapy.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
© Copyright 2023 by Millie Dynamite
This is a work of fiction and not intended to promote a lifestyle. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.
All characters in this story are 18 or older.
Cover Photo by Go to Engin Akyurt Unsplash
She’s a Bully
When I was a senior in high school, this bully picked on me because I was so small. I’m a guy, but I’m only 5 feet tall and weigh about 90 pounds or a bit more. I’m thin, a little soft, as in not mainly, and everyone says I’m cute. Not handsome, but cute or pretty. Bully’s picked on me from day one in school, and it was okay.
Boys pushing me around, I understood.
But the guys stopped being as mean by the time I was a senior. But this girl, a tough, rude, mean chick, took up where they left off. Occasionally, we had run-ins in one of the side halls of the school. At the lockers, I mean, which had to be intentional. Her locker wasn’t in the same hall or even close.
She’s beautiful, but not in a way that makes you like her. She’s strong and wiry, and she moves like a cat. With a dark russet complexation, a soft face, her lips were full and firm, and what an adorable smile.
More often than not, she scowled at me.
She had malice in her stare. Like a leather-bound book, too large to carry, too long to read, and filled with more substance to process in a single reading, she was too much for me to understand. Sometimes, she punched lockers, denting them. Or kicked locked doors, breaking them. But no one ratted her out. They perceived her as far too dangerous to have as an enemy.
Her body was shapely but hard as iron. She had angry eyes when she glared at me. Her lovely, soft face melted into a hateful, glowering gaze in a single heartbeat that made my blood turn cold. She isn’t some bodybuilder, isn’t fat or muscle-bound. She’s attractive, fit, toned, and black. She is about 5 feet 8 or 9 inches tall, a dancer, cheerleader, and I believe she hates white people.
Or at least this white boy.
You’d think she’d be loud, but she’s not. She’s soft-spoken, her voice calm until she says something horrible in a perfectly calm voice.
“Gonna rip your tiny nut sack off someday, boy.” Her voice made the hairs on my neck tingle. A whispery voice, like a girl with a secret and a nasty one.
“Look at miss prissy, Danny boy, ain’t she a pretty bitch?” She never raised her tone much, but always what she said about me carried to where I was. Like butterfly wings passed her hate from her mouth to my ears.
At school, I avoided her mostly. But sometimes, it was like she tracked me down. One day, a week before graduation, she trapped me in the hall outside the chemistry lab. She twisted my arm up into my back and forced me into a storage room.
Forcing me back to a corner, pressing me tight, making my body and face touch both walls. And she held me there, her big breasts pressed to the back of my neck. And her perfume flooded my nostrils. Red was what my mother wore, and the scent, strong and pungent, scared me.