Dear Diary, I fucked my mother's husband. And... I want it again.

“One last time.” I repeated. Swallowing hard. "Please, Daddy," I begged, my breath hitting his lips. "Fuck your little girl.”

I knew it was wrong. I knew he is the one man who should be off-limits, but I couldn't stop. Now, my secrets are all right here in these pages.

This book is a collection of the darkest stories ever told. It is a diary filled with things that should never happen.

It shows what happens When stepfathers can't resist the girl their wives call daughter, when father-in-laws fall for their daughter-in-laws, and when a father’s best friend looks at a girl he should be protecting with nothing but hunger.

These are stories about men who cross the line. They are about DADDIES and DAUGHTERS who forget the rules and give in to what they want.

Be warned: This book is not for everyone. It's A TABOO.

The heat is very high, and the stories are very dark. If you are looking for something sweet, PUT THIS DOWN. But if you want to see what happens when the most taboo lines are finally broken, keep reading.

Directed by Daddy, Fucked On Camera 💥🎥

My slides didn’t make a sound. I moved like a ghost, my toes pressing into the cold tiles as I crept toward the basement door.

This was the third time this week I had found myself creeping into this forbidden site. Every time I did it, my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. The house was silent, filled with the heavy quietness and sleep of 2 a.m., but here I was, wide awake.

I reached the heavy door that led to the private world of my stepfather, Vaughan Durag—a 47-year-old, hot man that looked everything like the bad guy in the movies that no one wants to mess with.

My mom had married him eight years ago, when I was just 12 years old. Now, I’m 20. He was and had always been the best thing that happened to us. Since she married him, our lives had changed. He was the perfect man, the perfect husband, and a father first. He took me in like his own. He was strong, steady, and a provider.

He had bought me my first car. He paid for everything I wanted without a second thought. It was sweet—a beautiful experience when your mom bags a billionaire who adopted you as his own daughter, gives you everything, makes you his next of kin, and loves you.

But then, there’s the dark truth of how he made those millions. A truth they never told me—him and my mom. I had to figure it out myself.

Vaughan wasn’t just a businessman; he was a high-end, private director for the elite. He filmed the things people were too afraid to do in public: A high end adult film director for elite clients.

I turned the brass knob. It clicked, making a tiny sound that felt like a gunshot in the quiet hall. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me.

The air I breathed changed instantly. In here, it was cooler, filled with the smell of old leather and electronics. I walked down the stairs, my hand sliding along the smooth railing.

The office was calm, quiet—the kind of quiet where, if a pin mistakenly fell, it would make a loud noise. Soft red lights glowed from the corners, casting long shadows across the professional cameras and the sofas at the side. I went straight for the desk. The monitors were huge, their mirrors so black that I could see my own nervous face in the reflections.

I clicked, and the blank disappeared. The screen buzzed to life. I didn’t need to search; I already knew exactly where he kept the files: the "Special Clients" folder.

I sat in his large, leather chair. It still smelled faintly of his cologne—something woody and sharp. I clicked the mouse, and the screen flared to life. My heart thumped, beating with a rhythm of both anticipation and fear.

I clicked, and the video from today started to play. It featured a couple I had seen earlier that morning. They had looked so professional when they arrived, but on screen, they were animals. Naked as the day they were born.

"Mmm-nnn-gh," the woman on the screen moaned. She was bent over the very sofa I was looking at across the room. Her partner was behind her, his large, thick cock sliding in and out of her with a wet slap.

I felt a jolt of electric rub down my spine. I felt heat build fast in-between my legs. I didn’t even think about it. My hand reached down, sliding under the waistband of my cotton panties. My fingers were already damp. I found the small, hard bud of my clit and started to rub it in slow, steady circles. "Ohhh," I whispered into the empty room as my eyes remained glued to the screen, watching the way the woman’s skin flushed red every time the man hit her deep.

I know I could just gone to my phone if I wanted to watch p**n right, gone to the thousand websites and watched a load of it instead of sneaking in here. And risking getting caught.

But the dark rotten truth is, this; it wasn’t the couple that I had come to watch. It wasn't them at all.

The main thing that made my breath hitch, clit throb,and wetness leak free out of my pussy, was the rawness of this video. The voice in the background. Not the couples moans.

Vaughan’s voice. My step father's voice.

That deep, calm, and completely in control tone.

"Arch your back more, Ellen," Vaughan’s voice commanded from behind the camera. "I want to see the way he stretches you. Stay still. Let him own you for the shot."

"Yes... oh God, yes," the woman sobbed on the screen. The man behind her lunged harder, his pace becoming a blur of motion.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

I had convinced myself times and again it was just for the spur of that moment. But everytime I heard him talk to me, I imagined more of that voice. Not in the caring parent tone. but in the commanding tone.

I moved my fingers faster. I was rubbing myself frantically now, my hips twitching in the leather chair. I imagined Vaughan standing right behind me, giving me those same instructions. I could almost feel his hand on the back of my neck. Telling me to rub faster. To rub myself like it was the last.

"Ohhh... Vaughan... Daddy..." I moaned, my voice a low, husky crawl. I was so close. With each passing minute that I rubbed myself, I was closer. So close. The pressure was building in my gut.

The video reached a peak. The man on screen let out a roar, and the woman shrieked, her body going rigid. My fingers moved faster and faster and faster against my skin, swirling and pressing. I was seconds away from breaking. My eyes rolled back, and my mouth hung open just before it hit.

"Angel."

The voice didn’t come from the computer. It came from the top of the stairs, pulling me out of the forbidden ecstasy.

“Fuck!”

I screamed, my hand flying out of my panties as I scrambled to stand up. The leather chair spun wildly. I tripped over my own feet, almost falling onto the expensive equipment. My face was burning, my heart hammering so hard I thought I would faint.

"Daddy!" I gasped, my chest heaving. I had been caught.

Vaughan was standing at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just black trousers. His muscles were tight, and his eyes were dark and unreadable.

He moved, one step at a time, as he started descending the stairs. He looked at the screen, which was still playing the messy ending of the video, and then he looked at my trembling hands.

"What are you doing in my chair, Angel?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Daddy, Fucked On Camera 💥🎥 (3 days break)

I froze. My heart dropped into my stomach, then started pounding against my ribs so hard I could barely breathe. The screen was still glowing, showing the end of the scene. I looked at the darkness near the stairs, then back at Vaughan.

"I... I just came down to get a glass of water," I lied—a very cheap, stupid lie, because how do I pass the kitchen and step underground into this place just to get water? "I thought you were asleep. I didn't see anyone."

Vaughan didn't move. He just stood there in the dim red light, his chest bare and solid as rock.

Fuck!

Who knows if he had been there the whole time? What if he had watched me watch them? What if he had watched me touch myself and had heard every single moan I let out? The stream of thoughts made my skin crawl with a mix of terror and a weird, forbidden heat.

"Angel," he called with a voice that sounded flat. No anger, no warmth. Just cold. "Go to your room. Now."

"Please," I whispered, stepping toward him. My hands reached out before I looked at them; my fingers were coated with my juice and wetness—an evident sign of my sin. I withdrew my hand back to myself. "Please don't tell Mom. Please, Daddy. Please. She'll... she’ll hate me. Please, Daddy, don't tell her, please."

He didn't blink; his eyes remained steady, retaining their cold gaze. He didn't say anything about what I was doing, not even the fact that I had moaned his name and he had possibly heard it.

"I said, go to bed," he repeated.

At that point, I knew I didn't need to delay. I bolted past him, my feet hitting the stairs hard—I knew I would probably bleed from that, but I didn't stop. I ran straight into my room and slammed the door, locking it.

My hand went to my chest, clutching myself.

What have I done?

What was wrong with me? I knew it wasn't my first time going in there, but it was the first time I was getting caught. And... would he tell Mom? What if he did? Mom would kill me if she knew I went there. If she knew I moaned her husband's name. I would be finished—that's for sure.

That night, I barely slept.

And then, the morning came. I felt sick. That kind of sickness that comes to you when you're guilty, that makes you feel nauseous, hot, and gives you a headache all at once.

I put on my school clothes, my eyes avoiding the mirror because I looked sleep-deprived.

When I finally walked into the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee hit me. I saw him: Vaughan.

He was sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone. My mom was bustling around, packing her bag.

“Good morning, Mommy,” I greeted. Not looking at Vaughan, and my heart beating, I murmured, “Good morning, Daddy.”

“Angel,” he responded flatly, eyes still glued to his phone. Who knows? He may still be angry.

"Morning, honey," my mom responded, smiling. "I'm heading out for that three-day trip. You’ve got everything you need?"

True. I had forgotten that Mom was going on her work trip.

"Yes, Mom," I said, my voice sounding small. I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the table. Vaughan looked up. His eyes locked onto mine. There was nothing in them—no hint of last night.

"Angel, are you ready? I can drop you at school," Mom offered.

"Actually, she can drive herself," Vaughan said, his voice calm. His gaze shifted to his wife. "You've got to get to the airport, sweetheart. You don’t want to be late."

“Alright, honey, you take care of yourself. Be a good girl, Angel.” She planted a kiss on my cheek, moved over to Vaughan, and they kissed before she was gone.

After she left, the air became tight. The house went quiet. Too quiet. I grabbed my bag and headed for the door, my heart finally slowing down. Maybe it was over. Maybe he’d just let it go, seeing it as a childish mistake and curiosity. Still, I needed to leave this house because my sin looked like it was wrapped on my skin.

Then, just before I reached the door, "Where do you think you’re going?" Vaughan’s voice stopped me cold in my tracks.

I turned my head towards him. He was still sitting at the table, sipping his coffee like it was a normal Tuesday.

"School," I said, my voice firm.

He laughed softly. "School? There’s no school for you, Angel. Not today. Not for the next three days."

I turned around, brows furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

He held up a set of keys—my car keys. He dropped them on the table with a heavy clink. "Your car is officially off-limits. I’ve had it towed to the shop for ‘maintenance.’ You aren't leaving this house."

My stomach turned. "You can't do that, Daddy. I have a life. I have classes. I have an excursion today."

He pulled out my credit card. How did he get that? Before I could blink, he snapped it in half. "Your accounts? Frozen. Every last one of them.” He dropped the broken card on the table. “You’re grounded, Angel. You’re going to spend the next three days within these four walls."

"This is crazy!" I flared, my face heating up. I walked toward him, not caring if I was being loud. "You can’t just lock me up because I snuck into your little secret room! You have all of that going on inside this house—did you really think I wouldn't eventually check it out? What did you expect?"

He stood up slowly. He was much taller than me, making me look like an ant in front of an elephant. He didn't look angry; he looked like someone that had finally caught their prey.

"Check it out?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low growl. "You didn't just check it out. You participated. I heard you, Angel. Every breath. Every time you whispered my name while you were rubbing yourself to my work."

Guilt, hot and suffocating, washed over me. I tried to look away, but he was already there. In front of me. He reached out and grabbed my chin, his thumb pressing firmly into my skin, forcing me to look up into his dark eyes.

"You wanted to watch, didn't you?" he hissed, his face inches from mine. "You wanted the show. That, I’ll give you: the leverage. But not on a screen. You’re going to watch it live. Raw. Unfiltered. You will stay in this house, work in my studio, until your mother is back."

Then, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"If I see your hands anywhere near yourself, if I catch you rubbing even an inch of skin, for the next three days, bid your car, your money, and your status in this house goodbye. Do you understand me?"

My breath hitched. "Daddy..."

The doorbell rang, sharp and loud, echoing through the walls of the house.

He let go of my chin and straightened his shirt. He looked at the door, then back at me. A cold, hard, tiny, almost unnoticeable smirk formed on his lips.

"Go change," he ordered. "We have a client arriving. And Angel? Try not to look so disappointed."

Daddy, Fucked On Camera 💥🎥

I went upstairs, my heart hammering like a drum against my ribs. I pulled on black leggings and a long, oversized shirt, though it did little to hide the way my breath hitched. I looked at myself in the mirror one last time. I didn't know what I was feeling. Good? Bad? Happy? Sad? Definitely not sad.

As much as I didn't like the fact that I wouldn't be in school for three days, I wasn't totally against the fact that I would be here in this house with Vaughan. Down there, in that place, witnessing everything that goes on there. Live. As a punishment. Hell yes, thank you. Three days. Nothing too bad. Nothing hard.

If that's the punishment, I gladly accept.

I walked down, my legs feeling like jelly. As I walked down the stairs, about to descend, at the bottom in the living room, I saw them: a tall man in an expensive suit, give or take 50? Right next to him was a girl who looked just like me—pale, pretty, and vibrating with nerves.

Then, there was Vaughan. My Daddy. He looked incredible, like a man who owned the very air we breathed. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, showing off his chest.

The man looked up.

"Who's this?" Mr. Row asked, scanning me up and down.

"Oh... that's my daughter, Angel," Vaughan said, his voice cold and proud. "She's on break. She’s helping me today."

Mr. Row smiled, showing perfect, white teeth. "Smart. Family business. Good to see you’re training the next generation, Vaughan."

“Someone's got to take over. Someday.”

Vaughan stepped up behind me. His hand dropped onto my shoulder. It was heavy, firm, and possessive. I shivered, swallowed hard.

"Angel, meet Mr. Row. And this is Princess, his stepdaughter."

I froze. What? Step… stepdaughter?

But he didn't let me dwell too long in my shock. "Come on," Vaughan said. "Studio. There's no time."

I followed him into the familiar path. We went deeper than ever before, into a secret part of the basement I’d never seen.

Bright LED panels hung from the ceiling. Microphones on the wall. A giant bed with black silk sheets sat in the center. It was like a temple for sin. On the side was a couch.

Mr. Row and Princess were directed to the small place to get changed. Immediately, they left.

Vaughan shoved a heavy, tall light stand into my hands.

"Hold this. Get closer. I need the light right on them, Angel. Don't let it drift. Every shadow matters."

I didn't nod. I just took it. Held it like it was a certificate to greatness.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Mr. Row and Princess walked out. He had his dress pants on, but no shirt. His body looked good—better than it looked in that suit. She was in a tiny, black lace bra and matching panties. "Princess, onto the couch," Vaughan ordered, his voice crisp and professional as he adjusted his lens.

She moved. Straight to the couch. I followed. Him too.

"I want you to sit back, legs spread wide. Keep your heels dug into the velvet.”

Princess obeyed, her movements swift as she splayed her legs for the camera.

Damn.

“Row, get behind her. I want your hand on her ass.” Row moved. Mr. Row’s hand clamped onto her cheek, placed softly.

Click!

Click.

“Grab.”

Mr. Row’s finger dug into the soft skin, grabbing the ass.

Fuck. I felt a pool gush out of my core, trying to keep my hand steady.

“Force her to lean into the frame. Yes, like that. Let the audience see exactly what you’re claiming," Vaughan commanded.

His fingers dug deeper into the soft skin, pulling her ass cheeks apart so her pussy was perfectly centered in the light.

I was seeing her pussy. Glistening. Dripping even without being fucked yet.

"Perfect," Vaughan muttered, his eye pressed to the viewfinder.

Then, "Angel, lower the light stand. Two inches. If you shake, the frame is ruined. Keep your eyes on the subjects, not your own hands," he ordered without looking at me.

"Good," he continued, his tone clinical. "Now, Princess, grind your hips against him. Slowly. I want to see the lace of those panties straining against your wetness. Row, whisper something in her ear that makes her realize she isn't leaving this room until you're finished."

Princess let out a low, whimpering moan as she followed his lead, rocking her hips against him. She looked at me, her eyes glazed, while the man’s hand kneaded her ass with aggressive, practiced rhythm.

Camera lights flashed.

My own pussy started to ache. A slick, hot feeling built up between my legs, and my leggings felt suddenly too tight.

“Light!” Vaughan snapped, drawing me back to reality.

Finally, Vaughan stopped, his face cold as he looked at his tablet; he moved to the couple, showed them the images. They giggled and whispered like it was a fun game.

Then, Vaughan looked up. His eyes locked onto mine. He knew. He knew what this was doing. What this would do to any sane person.

"Alright," Vaughan said, his voice dropping an octave. "The photos are done. It’s time for the real work.”

My heart skipped a beat.

Just photos. I was dripping. When these people get naked…

He stepped toward them. "Row, get her pants off. Princess, pull those panties to the side. I want to see you dripping. I want to hear you scream for your stepdad until your lungs give out. Understood?"

My heart dropped. Throat tightened.

Princess smiled broadly, like she'd been waiting for the moment all her life. “Yes, Vaughan.”

Vaughan walked over to me, adjusting the light in my hand. His hand brushed against my hip, lingering for a second too long, sending sweet signals to my already messed-up brain. "Angel, you’re drifting," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear, sending vibrations. "Keep that light steady. Focus on the way she’s opening for him. You wanted this. You have it."

He stepped back to the camera, his voice booming through the room. " You two, you don't just fuck. I want to hear the sound of skin hitting skin. I want to hear her begging. I want the whole house to know what happens when you’re in my studio. Start now. Take it all off. I want to see every inch of her pussy before and as the cock goes deep inside her."

I stood there watching and hearing the man I called father. Use those vuglar dirty words. Each of them resounding like a gong in my head. Sending Forbidden signals to my core.

Daddy, fucked on camera

The studio was a furnace of sweat and heat. I was pressed into the corner of the room, the heavy light stand feeling like the only thing keeping me upright. My knuckles were white from gripping the pole so hard.

Right now, Mr. Row was behind Princess, his body a blur of muscle. She was bent over the black sheets, her hair a tangled mess, her skin glowing and slick under the harsh glare of the LED panels. She looked like a doll, her spine arching in a way that made my own back ache with a sudden need.

"Row, thrust inside," Vaughan ordered in a slow, terrifyingly calm voice, as if he were just discussing breakfast options. The whole session—a naked man fucking his stepdaughter—looked like it had no effect whatsoever on him. Like he had learnt and mastered the act of seeing people's nakedness.

"Slow. Deep. I want to see her stretched until she can’t catch her breath. Do not hold back, man. Give the lens what it’s screaming for."

The man obeyed instantly, pushing into her with one slow, heavy, deliberate thrust. Princess let out a sharp, ragged gasp that sounded like a sob and a thank you. The sound of their skin colliding filled the air, drowning out the humming noise of the cooling fans.

It was hypnotic, a sweet, satisfying sight that pulled me in. My eyes were glued—glued to their middle. Every time he pulled out and slammed back in, she shuddered, her eyes rolling back to look at the ceiling, her mouth wide open in a silent, needy plea.

“Ohhh… yess, ohhh,” she moaned, sending wrong signals to my head, my pussy throbbing.

"Faster, Row," Vaughan commanded, his eyes not leaving the high-definition monitor. "She needs the pace to hit the edge. Don't let her settle. Make her earn every single inch you give her."

The room temperature seemed to skyrocket. I was leaning in and I didn't even know; my mouth watered. The light stand was trembling in my shaking hands.

As the seconds went by, the heat between my legs was becoming unbearable; it was like a pulsing, liquid fire. My leggings were soaked, creating a dark, hot patch that was slowly spreading across my thighs, sticking to my skin with every move I made.

I was clenching my muscles, trying to hide the ache, but my clit… ohh… that small, sensitive bud, it was throbbing and pulsing in time with every thrust they made. I felt like I was unraveling, my own body betraying me as I watched them treat the concept of "family" like a dirty joke.

Princess looked at me. Her face was flushed, her mouth hanging open, and her eyes were screaming with pleasure and zero shame. She was staring right at me while her stepfather pounded into her, his hands gripping her hips like he owned her, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

"Oh god! Yes! Daddy!”

Daddy. That word sent jolts of pleasure down my spine.

My head turned, looking at him. Vaughan. My own daddy.

“Light!” he ordered, like he saw me watching him. My gaze returned instantly to my supposed job.

“Right there! Fuck me like you’re taking what’s yours!" Princess shrieked, her body arching into a violent, shaking climax. “Ooohhhhhh!” She screamed her satisfaction in a long, high note that echoed off the secret walls.

Vaughan didn't move. He didn't even breathe harder. He just watched the monitor, his face completely blank.

"Stop," Vaughan said, leaning his head back. "Take a break, Row. We need you hard for the next position. Don't you waste your energy now. We’ve got more work ahead of us, and I want her begging for more by the hour."

The couple laughed, breathless and messy, as they pulled apart. I dropped the light stand in a way that it clattered against the floor, but I didn't care. I needed air. I needed to escape to breathe.

"I need water," I gasped, turning toward the door.

Vaughan didn't look up. "Don't go down. Follow me."

I stumbled behind him, and we walked into his private office—the place where he did the editing, the same room I was caught in last night.

It was dim, smelling of expensive paper and his sharp, masculine scent. He walked to the small fridge beside his table, pulled out a bottle of ice-cold water, and tossed it at me. I snatched it and drank until it was empty; still, my throat was burning. The bottle had barely left my mouth when I said, "I can’t..."

I was leaning against his desk, my legs shaking so hard I could barely stand. "I can’t go back in there. I can't."

"Why?" he asked, his voice low. "Is it the sight? Or is it the realization that you’ve been wanting to see this since the first day you stepped into my studio?"

He was right. I wanted to see what goes on there. I wanted to see, hear him command like that. But this—no, not this. Not this particular act.

"It’s... it’s taboo. It’s forbidden. They’re step-family, and they're… they're doing that?” I asked, pointing a finger in the direction of the inner studio. “I can't watch it anymore. I can't, I'm sorry. You can give me other punishments for me coming into your studio. I could wash, clean, do anything. Take my phones. But not that. I can't keep watching that taboo..." I rasped, the words falling free from my mouth.

He didn't respond—not yet. He moved, walking slowly toward me, his presence filling the room, making me smaller than I already was. He didn't look angry, but still… he was every inch intimidating.

"Forbidden?" he whispered, his eyes lingering on my lips. "How so? Huh?” he asked. “Are you really going to tell me that you, Angel, are following the moral code? With the way your body was dancing to the rhythm in there? Leaning closer like you wanted to be part of it?"

I looked away, my face burning. "You know how! It's wrong! It's—"

"When you moaned my name last night," he interrupted, his voice dropping into that dangerous, heavy tone, "what were you thinking? Was it forbidden then? Or was it exactly what you’ve been dreaming about every time you saw me walk through this house?"

I swallowed hard, my legs feeling weak. He was right? Or wrong? "You don't have to keep bringing that up again. It was a mistake. Okay, I.. I said what I said in the spur of the moment. I didn't intentionally moan your name. I… I wasn't thinking. It was like an impromptu stupidity."

He moved closer. I didn't move. I stood still, my heart beating out of rhythm, until he was now inches away from me. I could smell the leather of his chair and that sharp, woodsy cologne.

He reached out, his hand sliding firmly around my waist, pulling me against his hard frame. His grip was like iron, leaving me no space to retreat. Before I could even gasp, his hand slid down. He pressed his palm directly against the soaked patch of my leggings, right over my pussy.

Fuck. My breath caught in my throat.

Pleasure shot through me like a bolt of lightning, making my knees buckle. His eyes locked on mine. He rubbed his thumb over the wet fabric, pressing into me, feeling exactly how much I wanted to be touched there. I could feel the heat radiating from him, and the way my own body pulsed against his touch was a betrayal I couldn't stop.

"Ahhh..." The short sound ripped out of my throat before I could stop it.

He leaned into my ear, his voice a low, gravelly command. "You seem to enjoy the taboo, Angel. Much more than you’ll admit.” I felt him smile. “Listen. You’re going to watch every second of that taboo for the next three days. Every movement. Every moan. Every one of those forbidden fucks. Whether you like it or not, you’re going to love every agonizing second of it.” He paused, his breath fanning my ear. Hot.

Then,

“God help you, Angel, if I catch you touching yourself while you watch. After you watch. Or before you watch. You’ll be done for."

He pulled back, his eyes dark and satisfied. He turned and headed back toward the studio door.

"Don't stay here long," he said over his shoulder. "The clients are waiting."

I stood there, trembling. My body felt like it was on fire. The man I called father—my mother's husband—had just… had just touched me. And worse, I hadn't pushed him away. I reacted, moaned at the same taboo I was condemning seconds before the touch.

Then,

Angel!" he called out loud from the studio door.

I moved. I had to.

Daddy, fucked on camera (caught touching myself)

The studio was a furnace. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and the raw, heavy energy of sex. Mr. Rowe and his daughter had just finished their session—their forbidden, sweet, sticky session of fucking on camera.

My skin felt too tight. My blood was roaring in my ears. I couldn’t stand being there, watching them, not anymore. My body was betraying me. I was pulsing, a constant, wet ache thumping between my legs. It was like my core had its own mind, and it was breathing.

"Can I leave?" I asked. My voice was a thin, ragged scrape. It didn't matter that Mr. Rowe and Princess were standing right there. I just needed to move. I needed to get out of there.

Vaughan was focused on the lens, but he still gave a small, sharp nod. "Drop the memory cards in the office. Then you're done for the day."

I snatched the cases from the table. My fingers were slick and shaking. I didn't look at anyone. I ran to the office, dropped the cards on the wood, and bolted for the stairs. Every step was agony. My leggings were damp, clinging to me. The friction of the fabric against my swollen, sensitive clit was driving me right to the edge.

I reached my room and slammed the door. The lock clicked, but it didn't feel like enough protection. I didn't bother to turn on the light. One second I was in; the next, I was tearing at my clothes before I even hit the center of the rug. My shirt, my leggings, my panties, and my bra—everything hit the floor in a heap. I was naked, shivering, and burning up.

I sprinted to the bathroom and turned the faucet on full blast. I didn't wait for the water to warm up; I just stepped in and sank into the tub, the cold water splashing against my heated skin. I tried to relax—just relax—and maybe the heat would go away. But as I squeezed my eyes shut, all I could see were the images.

Dirty images from that studio.

Princess, back arched, mouth open, head lolling. The man’s heavy, rhythmic thrusts. The way his cock was sliding in and out of the girl he was supposed to call his daughter. Then, the faces blurred. Princess became me. The man became Vaughan.

I could hear his voice—deep and smooth, commanding every movement of my life. Show me how wet you are. Spread your legs. Let me see it all.

Fuck.

My hand dived between my legs. My skin was hot. My fingers were frantic, slick with my own desire. I wasn't just touching myself; I was reaching for him. It was like my mind was trying to recreate the weight of his hand—what it would feel like.

I rubbed fast and hard. "Oh god, Vaughan... yes..." I gasped. My breath was coming in short, panicked hitches. I wasn't gentle. I used my thumb to tease the sensitive bud, swirling over it, pressing down with a desperate, hungry weight.

"Daddy… look at what you’re doing to me."

I pushed two fingers inside. I stretched myself, mimicking the heavy, deep rhythm of the studio. "Yes! Fuck! Right there!" I arched my back, my toes digging into the porcelain. My clit was so sensitive that every movement sent a sharp, electric jolt up my spine. My hips started to thrust upward, rocking against my own hand. "Ah! Oh! Daddy, I love it! Keep going!"

My hand was a blur. I was pressing my fingers in and out, feeling myself stretch and snap back. "Mmm-gh! Yes, right there! You're making me so wet, Daddy!" I was so close. The pressure in my gut was tight like a spring. I was pushing harder, my fingers curling, my whole body trembling as I tried to find that perfect, agonizing rhythm. "Please Daddy... ahh, ohhh... I'm almost there... Daddy, I'm—I'm—!"

The bathroom door creaked. The light switched on, illuminating the darkness like a blade. I froze.

There... Vaughan.

He stood in the frame, his eyes dark, his face unreadable. "What did I say about touching yourself, Angel?"

His voice was cold. I went rigid. My fingers were still buried deep inside, my pussy dripping, my body still trying to finish. But I couldn't move. I could only stare, my mouth hanging open in silent, desperate shame as I sat in the bright light of the bathroom.

He didn't move away. He stepped into the room, watching as his eyes dragged slowly from my face down to my trembling, slick body, and then to the middle of my legs where my fingers were still buried.

"I told you," he whispered, stepping even closer. "The price of disobedience is very, very high.”