My first effort

My first such story.

Very short.

First draft.

Here goes:

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The girl squirms as she sits in the pew. Her mother’s hand rests on her thigh, a tight fold of the girl’s skin caught between the mother’s thumb and forefinger. Both mother and daughter look straight ahead at the preacher while the girl feels her heart rate rising slowly in response to the pain.

She can not do or say anything to make her mother stop. An apology spoken out loud would only make the pinch harder and cause it to last longer. Speaking out loud in church is what had gotten her into this situation in the first place.

So the girl sits there, thinking about pain, the drone of a sermon failing to distract her.

She has never understood why it should be that the sting of a pinch on her thigh should have any kind of effect on her nipples. But there it is. As happens whenever her mother gives her this kind of punishment, she feels the tingling at the centers of her breasts. Is this caused by the skin of her nipples rubbing against her shirt as she wiggles quietly? Or is it just an internal sensation? She’s never had the chance to experiment to find out.

It doesn’t exactly feel good, but it makes her pain more… interesting.

Rather than letting up, her mother increases the severity of the pinch, twisting a little as well. The girl realizes she has just hissed involuntarily. She knows she must watch herself in order to prevent her mother from ramping up the punishment even further.

Something else she was doing involuntarily was this: Her back was just slightly arching back against the pew, allowing her shirt to rub slightly against her nipples. She looked up at the ceiling, breathing as slowly and steadily as she could to keep her nascent tears from becoming actual sniffles. She closed her eyes and arched her back just slightly more.

And, as always, the feeling began pulsing through her clitoris. How could it be that the pain should jump from her thigh to her nipples, and from her nipples to her clit, and along the way transform from pain into… something else? She has never really thought about this before. She has hardly even understood that there is something to understand. It was all punishment to her. The pain in her leg, the ache in her breasts, hope in her clit, the requirement to quash all movement, all contributed to her suffering.

If her pelvis is undetectably grinding back and forth into the pew, does her mother notice? The girl hopes not.

Church over, her leg released, she hobbles through the crowd, greeting friends, saying polite hellos to old people, and so on. She, her sister, her brother, her father, her mother, each make their separate way to the family’s car.

In the heat of the parking lot, the sun somehow seems to bake her leg around the bruise more intensely than anywhere on the rest of her body. In fact, her arms, her legs, her feet, remain somehow cold under the heat.

Today something out of the ordinary is occurring. Boxes and sacks full of baking goods have been placed in the front seat of the car, in anticipation of some domestic event or other. “Where am I supposed to sit?” her dad asks. His wife always drives. She suggests that he sit in the backseat today, with the kids.

“Oh, man,” pipes up her sister. “Gonna be crowded…”

Mom jokes, inviting the girl to ride in the trunk. What really happens is, Dad sits on the seat behind Mom, the girl’s sister sits next to him, her brother to her right, and she herself sits on his lap.

The pain is not letting up. It really is the worst pinch her mother has ever given her. If anything, it feels as though the pinching had never ceased.

The tingle in her nipples, the buzz in her clitoris, also continue.

Her brother and sister are conversing loudly about something, mom and dad laughing and piping in. She can not concentrate on what they are talking about. She rubs the bruise in a hopeless attempt to reduce the pain, but of course only hurts herself as a result. And when she does hurt herself, she makes the tingling elsewhere in her body more intense.

It hurts, and she keeps doing it. She begins driving her thumb into it, looking out across through her brother’s window, hoping to make sure no one notices what she is doing. It would be difficult to fulfill any demand to explain herself.

She has to stop after a few minutes, because her pelvis has started to move involuntarily. It happens twice. She hopes to pass it off as a result of a bumpy car ride.

The pain is still there. She is now looking out her own window. How can it be that the rhythm of the road outside fits the rhythm of the pulsing in her bruise, and throughout her body. A coincidence? A trick of her mind?

She knows her father has gone quiet. She knows what she can feel underneath her. She knows its not his fault and it doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t know whether he knows that.

She wants someone to hurt her leg some more.

Without vocalizing, without hoping anyone will see her, pretending the man whose lap she is sitting on couldn’t notice, she mouths the words to no one. “Pinch me.”

She imagines sitting in the church pew again, her mother choosing to exercise cruelty. Who cares why she is being pinched?

She mouths it again, driven by the pleasant burning she feels around her vagina. She strains to turn her neck into the danger zone, far enough that she knows her father could see. The danger thrills her. “Pinch me, please pinch me.”

The swelling begins anew beneath her. She feels her father’s penis growing, throbbing.

She shifts in her seat. She shifts once more.

Her thumb has found its way to her bruise again, and she is pushing rhythmically into it when she is interrupted. She knows her hand to be cold, yet suddenly it is warm. Her father’s hand is on hers. He moves her hand away from her bruise.

She is embarrassed, chastised. She has been caught. How will she explain her self to him?

His rough, warm fingers brush against her bruise. They close onto her skin. They take it up, begin pressing, twisting.

Father and daughter are looking back across the seats, watching her brother and sister, making sure neither gaze directs itself toward her leg. She moves her bible in order to hide what is happening as best she can.

He now squeezes severely. She hisses quietly. She pushes her seat back into his penis. He maintains his hold. She maintains the pretense of a bumpy ride.

As he begins rhythmically varying his hold, squeezing, letting go, scratching a little, and so on, she leans back into him as the car rounds a corner. She places her lips at his ear. She whispers.

“Isn’t mother beautiful?”

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