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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.

Next, she eased herself onto the bed again like she did the night before. Though this time she wasn’t fooling around with her daddy’s chest. Like a cat she slowly stalked up and over her dad’s leg, hands and knees either side until she was looking right down at her father’s crotch. It was a difficult position to hold, and she wanted to be comfortable for a good while. Eventually she found that putting her hands either side of his waist was the easiest while letting herself lower down onto her elbows. Just one bonus of her daily volleyball training was keeping limber, though this wasn’t how she envisioned using it.

Should he do it? Just forfeit the match? To admit before the crowd that their prince was too weak to fight back? After everything that had happened to him, he had no pride left, nothing to lose. Maybe it was better to accept his failure and resign himself to his shame. Lying on the ground, he raised his arm, about to surrender, but stopped, thinking back to a conversation he had with Tarnas. It was during the year of training, the two of them sitting around the campfire on an autumn night. Seraph was staring deep into the flames, into the light and warmth, but all he felt inside was cold darkness.