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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.

It was a warm night tonight as the night before. They barely needed the sheets with no air conditioning running. She grabbed the loose end of the sheet resting above her father’s hand and slowly pulled it back. It was almost like a strip tease. His pecks, chest and stomach all came into view, very nice to see but she’d already had her fill of them this morning. Finally, the sheet pulled back to reveal his waist, his short patch of curly pubic hair coming into view. She slowed herself down, carefully pulling the sheet over his bulge and not daring to look until she dropped the sheet down on his thighs.

“You’ll thank me,” she said as she stepped out of the shower, returning with garden variety paper scissors and a disposable razor. She snipped my pubes close with the scissors, not even taking a minute. Then she got a big handful of soapy suds and coated my cock and balls. In just a couple of minutes rinsed me with a handheld sprayer, revealing a totally bald, and, I must say, a more impressive looking penis.