What do you say about a little story for your evening? I've got one here just for you.
Enjoy!
I was fifteen when she first touched me. My Mama had finally allowed me to attend Sunday School. I never liked it - Sunday School, and Mama was surprised when I asked. Her no was more from confusion that refusal. She didn’t understand why I wanted to go, but I kept pushing till she nodded in exasperation, her big brown eyes wide as she studied me. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to go either. Maybe because of her. I always liked her, though I hid it well, or so I thought.
Before that day, it was just politeness. Yes, that was my belief. She would pat my arm lightly and smile into my eyes, making me blush. Then she began to watch me. I would turn and catch her staring at me, causing the hairs at the back of my neck to stand. It wasn’t exactly an eerie feeling, like a predator stalking his prey. It was more of an intense sensation. She would smile on meeting my eyes and the lower part of my stomach would melt.
I began to sit next to her. It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it would be. Her eyes had lit up the first day I arrived, then she patted the empty space besides her, staring intensely at me as I approached. I gave her my shy smile and sat, consciously aware of her eyes on my slightly bowed legs. She touched me lightly on the arm with her index finger before turning back to the instructor. I never concentrated. My breath kept coming in short whispers, and I kept shifting uncomfortably while pressing my thighs together. I would later wonder if she noticed.
--
Her fingers were moving up my knee to my lap. I tensed. She stopped mid motion and leaned into me.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Tell me if you don’t like it and I will stop.”
She waited. I said nothing. She smirked and continued her lazy assault. Her fingers snaked up my thigh and under my gown. I had thought it decent to wear a gown to Sunday School. Gowns were one of the things I disliked, another reason my Mama raised an eyebrow when I came downstairs, ready to go.
She got to my boxer briefs and stilled. Her eye snapped up in surprise. Holding my gaze, she traced one finger on the hem, following the soft elastic to the back of my thigh.
“You wear briefs?” she asked.
I stared at her, holding my breath.
“Tell me.”
“I like them,” I answered quietly.
She nodded and withdrew her fingers. It was the Sunday of my second week and she never touched me again.
I waited the following week but nothing happened. We continued to sit side by side, exchanging only a polite smile. By the end of the fifth week, I had made up my mind to stop attending. She was my only reason and I had lost her. The day I planned to stop, I wore my usual T-shirt and jeans. As I made my way to the instructor to hand in my pamphlet and excommunicate myself, someone touched my right arm. I turned and stared into her tawny eyes.
“Don’t go, Ana,” she pleaded. “Please come home with me.