I hugged the denim of Dad’s jeans, my hands gripping the rough fabric as I climbed past his thigh. He was still humming, oblivious, his boots scuffing the tiles as he moved between the stove and sink. I was close to his knee now, but I hesitated. Shouting from here hadn’t worked—my voice was too small, lost in the kitchen’s noise. I needed to make him feel me. My eyes darted between the front of his jeans and the back. If I could slip inside, crawl somewhere he’d notice, maybe he’d sense something—a tickle, a shift. But where? The front, near his dick, or the back, toward his ass?
The front was risky. The zipper loomed like a metal gate, and the area beyond felt too… unpredictable. One wrong move, and I’d be crushed or worse. The back seemed safer—gross, but more open, with the loose waistband offering a way in. If I could crawl inside, maybe wedge myself near his lower back or butt, he’d feel something odd and check. My stomach twisted at the thought, but it was better than falling or getting stuck.
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