In a Pinch

This – and the larger handful grab – is a regular occurrence in my life, usually happening any time we are in a car together. My thighs are often dotted with finger imprints from a good solid pinch and bigger marks from whole-hand grabs.

I don’t even remember how they started. He learned quickly about how nipple pinching goes right to my cunt, and employs those pinches – as well as his own version in which he brings me up on my toes by the tips of my nipples – regularly. I feel like maybe the thigh pinches started as a “well if you like them there (on my nipples), what about here (my thighs)?” experiment. However it started, it soon became “our thing” and if I go on a car ride with him and it doesn’t happen, something doesn’t seem right in my world.

That’s not the only place he does it, though (either the car or the thighs.) If I’m sitting on his lap at Kinky Bowling he’ll often pinch me on the inner thighs surreptitiously, making me writhe and moan soundlessly (or as soundlessly as possible) while people mill around us and balls crash against the pins. And when we’re in bed, he’ll sometimes grab and pinch my cunt, and then chuckle as I simultaneously press into him and try to escape. Because it both hurts like hell and makes me want it to stop, and makes my cunt wet.

Which is ridiculous and delicious at the same time.

The best (most fucked up) game is when he pinches me and gets me riled up, rocking between pain and pleasure, and then, when I’m definitely tipping into the pain zone, pulls me close. “Come for me, bitch,” he says. And I do, because I can’t help myself. “Good girl,” he says. “You’re so fucked up.” And I preen. Yes Sir, I am.