EX-CON - Scott Hildreth
June 6, 2006
Neither of my parents abused me, nor was I exposed to pornography or a perverted uncle at an early age. My sexual desires weren’t something I developed; they were part of my being. The night we met I was in a sexual lull and had been there for some time. I was dissatisfied with men in general - for reasons I didn’t fully realize at the time - and I had become fed up with even attempting to move forward. I had all but given up on men and sex, and by nothing more than a small streak of blind luck, he entered my life.
I had been in a bar dancing alone, and was disgusted with the behavior of the drunken men who were making comments about my choice of clothes. On that particular night, I was batting roughly .984 for being lightly sexually assaulted by strangers. In hindsight, maybe I should have worn a bra, but if I had I wouldn’t have met Jackson, so scratch that thought.
I was walking out - well, stomping out would be a more accurate description. The departure stomp I often used when I wanted everyone to know just what it was I was thinking without actually saying it.
I tossed my hair over my shoulder and exhaled a sigh from my soul.
“That’s it, I fucking swear,” I huffed as I turned toward the door.
“Don’t leave mad,” the drunken thirty-something year old former frat boy said as he grabbed my arm and spun me around.
“Let me go!” I demanded as I attempted to pull away.
The music had changed from a dance beat to some lullaby bullshit, and most everyone had walked from the dance floor to their respective tables which were situated twenty or so feet away. Amidst the edge stood my closest possible assistance and he seemed to be immersed in talking to his drunken date.
With his mouth still agape, the drunken asshole who held my arm gazed down at my boobs with wide eyes. After staring for what seemed like forever, he nodded his head toward my tits as he spoke.
“You can’t go out in public dressed like that and expect a man not to notice,” he said.
“Let me go, I mean it,” I said as I tried to free my arm from his grip.
My top was sheer, but tasteful. Underneath, I wore a white tank and no bra. In my opinion, I was able to choose whether or not to wear a bra, because it wasn’t always necessary. Small “C” cup breasts were affixed to my chest like two stones, and cinching them even tighter to my narrow frame wasn’t necessarily required. The temperature in the bar was such that my nipples had been hard for the fifteen minutes I was inside, five of which I chose to pass by dancing.
His hand still gripping my upper arm firmly, I had no reason to believe his half-drunken ass was going to release me anytime soon, so I felt screaming was my only way out. I hated to be that girl, but I desperately wanted to be left alone. I inhaled a deep breath, paused, and gave fair warning.
And that was the moment when I met Jackson.
“I mean it. I’ll fucking scream,” I said through my teeth.
“Is there a problem?” a voice from behind me asked.
His tone was deep and calm, yet distinctly demanding of a response.
Frat boy released my arm as his eyes went wide. “No, Sir, there’s no problem.”
I turned around. My savior was tall, extremely muscular, and what portions of his body weren’t covered by the seemingly microscopic leather vest he was wearing were decorated with tattoos. With a very strong jaw covered by a few days growth of beard, he looked rough. The type of rough no man would want to cross. I may have been slightly biased at that particular moment, but describing him as attractive wouldn’t have done him justice. He was a far more refined handsome, a man I was certain had no idea he was as strikingly good looking as he appeared to be. As I gawked at him in the same manner I had been ogled all night, I pleaded my case.
“That asshole was trying to pull my top down, and when I tried to leave, he grabbed me and wouldn’t let go,” I explained as I attempted to catch my breath.
“You dropped this,” my savior said as he held my purse at arm’s length.
I glanced toward his hand. I didn’t realize I