No

As his words hit me, it makes me bristle once again, in defiance. I fix him with a glare, the look that has sorted more than a few teenage (and older!) boys out in the past. They also know not to mess with me, they know I mean what I say and can more than hold my own ground. I am a fierce fighter, I can give and take a punch, but will bite if necessary, and some of them have the marks to prove it.

I sneer at him, "like you're gonna try?" and set my legs. I'm in a balanced stance, my weight in my Converses evenly distributed, my knees bent in my old ripped 501 jeans, and my arms relaxed by my sides in my vest, but ready; I may not be much over 5' tall but I'm agile and mean, used to scuffles and I'm ready to mix it with the old guy.

We returns my look, unmoving, and there is a tense stand-off. Despite my bravado, there is a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades, and I can hear my own breath in the silence.

His leg slashes out in an instant.

"What the..?", I start to say but it's already too late, as my legs are slashed from beneath me and I crumple in a tangled heap. I'm angry, furious ('was that some kind of martial arts crap?') as much with myself as him, but my mind whirls as I seek to move to the offensive even as he is upon me.

I start to kick, and my nails slash out, but this bastard is quick. And good, I realise, as my Converses are slipped off so I am soon kicking out at him in socks. I twist to aim for his crotch but my foot is caught and the socks disappear just before he starts tugging at my jeans.

I aim downwards with my fingers, hoping to rake him with my nails, confident that my jeans (so tight they hug my ass tight) will hold firm, but he deflects my blow all too easily and his hands undo the poppers on the fly of the 501s on their way up my body ('how did he do that?') before tearing (literally!) the waistband open. For the first time, I feel a bit of self-doubt ('This guy must be strong') and in that instant my jeans are lost as he yanks hard and they start to slip down me, dragging me with them slightly so my head bangs, hard, against the wooden step.

This stuns and distracts me slightly and he is able to tug them the rest of the way down and throw them behind him, looking down at me in just my boxers (I like boys underwear) and my vest top, lying at the foot of the stairs in the dirt.

He holds out his hand, I think in a peace offering, or maybe to help me up but, just when I'm thinking of biting him, the hand snatches at the front of my vest and tears it, with shooting pains in my shoulders where it goes taut before it snaps, from my body.

Bra-less, my tiny little boobs suddenly revealed, and red marks on my shoulder blades, I feel totally disarmed and know that I am not only losing but may have lost this battle.

He throws the torn white vest over his shoulder to join the rest of my clothing and looks down at me, towering above me. I am completely non-plussed as to my next move, but it matters not since he reaches down, cupping my ass in one of those huge hands, and tugs my boxers down to my knees then over my ankles before discarding them. I barely have time to try and shield myself, covering my boobs with one forearm and one hand over the dark triangle of curly hair before he speaks to me again.

"So now do we understand each other?"