I was wearing a short skirt and those tall socks I knew you liked the look of. Together, they left a band of skin exposed that I hoped would catch your attention. I threw an oversized leather jacket on top - long enough to draw the eye down to my legs.

When you picked me up, I stepped up into the front seat, and I glimpsed the moment your eyes darted down to the flash of thigh that appeared as I took my seat, and then quickly reverted back to meet my gaze.

You looked sharp, as you always do. I don't know who taught you to do eye contact like that, but it awakens something in me every time you hold my gaze. I squeezed my thighs together and felt my neck get hot. I flashed you a bright smile. "Hey, you."

"Hey, you, indeed," you smiled back.

When we were seated for the show, and the lights came down, leaving the stage illuminated, I felt your hand slip over my leg to rest on my thigh. Your fingertips brushed the exposed skin and I shivered. You gave the slightest notion of a squeeze, barely perceptible, but enough to run a current up my spine and to my brain that said, "right now, this is mine." And it was true.

For the first half of the show, we sat like that, occasionally leaning in to quietly comment to each other, pressing our weight into each other's shoulders. Your hand stayed on my thigh, the weight of it a gentle reminder of my place.

As they announced the intermission, you squeezed a little harder than you had when we had just sat down. It surprised me and I gasped slightly, flushed less slightly. You smiled lightly at me, and without missing a beat, said "how about we grab a quick drink at the bar?"

I swallowed, watching your eyes watch my throat, and nodded. "Yeah," I breathed out. "That sounds great."

After the intermission we settled back into our seats and I carefully laid my jacket over my lap. Once the lights came down and the music began again, your hand found its way under my jacket, back to my thigh.

This time, though, when you squeezed your fingertips dug into the flesh of my thigh with purpose. My breath caught. I expected the squeeze to end.

It did not.

If it had, it would have been a perfectly executed squeeze, firm and commanding and assertive. All those words mean the same thing, but that felt right.

However, you increased the pressure. Slowly, and purposefully. Your fingertips dug further into the flesh of my thigh and I had to bite my tongue to stop from making a noise.

I looked at you and caught you staring intently at my face. You squeezed harder. I winced. You continued to squeeze. No longer harder, but longer. I gritted my teeth.

If I made a noise, it would draw the attention of the people sitting around me. I breathed out slowly through my nose, doing my best to stay silent. You leaned in, as we'd been doing throughout the evening, and whispered, "You're such a good girl, staying so quiet." I nodded. I could feel my eyes watering. "When you go home tonight, I want you to send me a photo of the bruises I'm leaving on you right now." I nodded again. You gave my thigh once last pulse and released it, finally.

As soon as you released my thigh from your vice grip, my cunt was dripping. I was certain I was red with embarrassment and I was deeply grateful for the dim lighting over the crowd. I met your gaze again and I could tell you knew, and that you found my state incredibly amusing.

After the show, you drove me home. We chatted about the music and didn't talk about my thigh and the tender skin you'd left behind. You kissed me sweetly goodbye and with another one of those ever charming smiles, you let me off at my door.

When I got in the house, I headed immediately for the bedroom, where I stripped and stood in front of my full-length mirror. My left thigh, pale after a winter hidden from the sun, proudly displayed five small bruises, one for each finger and your thumb. They would be purple tomorrow, and likely bloom outward. Right now it was very obvious that they were fingerprints.

I took the photo you requested, and dropped it into our text thread, with one word as the caption:

"yours"