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If my body was turning him on, he never said so directly—he took care of himself discretely and never let on that having me curled so close to him while I was wearing so little aroused him in any way.
It aroused me, though—I have to admit it. It might sound sick to some people, since Jack was so much older than me and had helped to raise me when I was small, but I couldn’t seem to help it. My body responded to his—responded to his scent…his closeness…his warmth. I didn’t know why, because to be honest, I had never had those feelings before. But I was certainly having them now.
After the nightmares faded and my trembling stopped, I couldn’t help thinking how good it felt to be so close to his big, warm, muscular body. I liked the feeling of my tight nipples brushing his broad chest and side and I’ll admit to pressing my pelvis a little closer to him than was strictly necessary to rub my panty-clad pussy against his hip.
Again, Jack pretended not to notice any of this and he never responded to my immature sexual overtures. He just kept an arm wrapped around me and let me press against him, pretending to sleep even when my breathing got uneven as sparks of pleasure shot through my virgin pussy.
I had never been this close to a man before—any man. I hadn’t dated much in high school, even though I was considered pretty with my long, golden-brown hair and big brown eyes. I always thought I was too curvy, but the boys didn’t mind—possibly because I had double D sized breasts.
But whenever they asked me out, I always said no. I can’t explain it but it felt wrong to date one of them—it was almost like they were a different species than I was. Something alien or foreign that repelled me.
So yes, I was a virgin at nineteen, even though I had lost my cherry in a mishap involving an over-large tampon long ago. There had been a sharp pain and more blood than I was used to and then nothing. I never told anyone, though—I was too embarrassed.
But thought I never wanted anything to do with the boys who asked to date me, I couldn’t seem to get enough of cuddling and snuggling with Jack or “Daddy Jack” as I still often called him.
We never talked about what I did during the night in the cold light of day—we pretended nothing had ever happened. Nothing but a girl who had a nightmare cuddling in her protector’s bed. Because that was what Jack was to me—my protector. My rock and my comfort and my safety—my home. I never wanted to lose him again.
Those nights were special to me—a strange combination of tender and erotic, even though Jack never participated. But now I wonder if it was all the close contact with Jack and his warm, spicy scent that brought out my Mark…
Of course, there’s no way to tell now, but it’s very uncommon for a Were Mark to come out on a female who’s already past her sexual maturity. Most Marks appear quite young, in our Pack at least,—between the ages of five and ten. Who knows—maybe I was just a late bloomer. But for whatever reason, one day I was washing myself in the shower and I noticed a prickling sensation on my right, inner thigh.
I didn’t think much of it, but when I got out of the shower and dried myself off, I felt it prickling again. Putting one foot on the lid of the toilet, I looked down between my legs, trying to figure out what was going on.
There, on my inner thigh, quite close to the outer lips of my pussy, was a swirling blue mark, not unlike the ones on Jack’s muscular arms.
“What in the Hell?” I muttered to myself, frowning. I didn’t know what it was—not then. My parents had referred to Were business only briefly amongst themselves and they had never told me much about my heritage—because I hadn’t had a Mark. And without a Mark, no one is admitted into the Pack because no Mark means you’re not a Were. So why would they tell me the truth about myself—about what I was? I guess they thought I didn’t need to know.
So I stared at the strange blue swirl on my inner thigh in surprised fascination, having no idea what it could possibly be. Had I suddenly grown a spontaneous tattoo? How was that even possible?
But even as I watched, the Mark faded as though it had never been. Wondering if I had been imagining it, I finished drying off and got dressed.
When I walked back into the master bedroom, Jack was there. He was wearing a pair of jeans but that was all—his broad, muscular chest with the wiry mat of black hair in the center was bare. He often walked around the house like this—he “ran hot” as he said and it always felt too warm to him, even when I had the AC set low. I never complained about this—I liked to watch my muscular guardian—the way his biceps and pecs flexed when he moved and the was the swirling blue tattoos seemed to flow on his dark tan skin was mesmerizing and not a little lust inducing.
