the vacant space beside him and she obediently sat down, fidgeting with the hem of her shorts.
“Okay, let’s start with the basics,” Mark said, putting his book aside. “You’ve got to connect with the music, feel the rhythm. Start slow, then build up the momentum.”
He reached out, placing a hand on Rylee’s hip and guiding her into a gentle sway. She gazed up at him, wide-eyed and flustered, as Mark demonstrated each move with practiced ease.
I clapped softly, offering words of encouragement, the bulge in Rylee’s dad’s jeans growing more pronounced as he worked with his daughter. My gaze drifted down, following the impressive length as it strained against the fabric.
Rylee’s performance improved with each passing minute, her confidence growing as Mark’s guidance refined her technique. Finally, with a flourish of his hands, he declared, “Perfect! You’ve got it now, kiddo.”
Rising to her feet, Rylee beamed at her dad, then turned to me, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Did you see? I’m a natural now!”
I grinned back, hiding my true intentions behind a mask of friendly approval. “You sure are! Now let’s practice some more, with the music.”