misty rose tattoo

One day she definitely knew the effect she had on me, even if she hadn’t before. I was writing an essay on The Grapes of Wrath and asked Mrs. B when she came by if a word was spelled correctly. She leaned over, her silky red hair brushing against my cheek and her breast lay against my left shoulder. My cock stiffened instantly—and uncomfortably. Without thinking, I reflexively reached down and maneuvered my throbbing dick into a more comfortable position. It did create a sizable tent pole in my pants that I tried to push down and hide, which only drew attention to my crotch. Mrs. B blushed noticeably, stood up while stifling a laugh and muttered an apology.

Sarah stayed in that same position for a while, curled in ball right by his side, playing with his body hair and breathing in his scent. As she was thinking about making her retreat her hand strayed a bit too far down his belly and hit something scratchy. Though about to fall asleep, this curious sensation brought her out of it. She had pulled her hand back as soon as she felt it, but she once again brough her hand out to her dad’s stomach, fingers on her outstretched hand trailing down his flat stomach and just above his pelvis. With her pinkie finger she pressed down and felt that same patch of scratchy hair. Her sleepy mind finally registered what it was. It was his pubes.

“Like mother like daughter, I said,” he chuckled. “She needed to know. And as you can see, teasing aside, she hardly disapproves.”