My Mother-in-Law Selected a Mistress for My Husband

I never thought my biggest secret would ruin me in the hottest way possible.

My laptop screen glowed with that familiar pink light, the one that made my skin look like warm honey under the ring light. I was on my knees on the fluffy white rug in my bedroom, wearing nothing but a sheer black baby-doll top that barely covered my nipples and a tiny thong that had already soaked through. My heart hammered against my ribs as the chat exploded with hearts and fire emojis.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet already,” one regular typed.

But I only had eyes for him.

DaddyD.

The username that had been tipping me stupid money for the last three months. Tonight he’d already dropped two grand, and the private show had barely started. My fingers trembled as I typed back, voice soft and breathy for the camera.

“You like what you see, Daddy?”

His reply popped up instantly, bold and commanding like always:

DaddyD: I want you to ride that pillow like it’s my cock. Slow. Show me how desperate you’d get for me.

Heat flooded my cheeks—and lower. God, I hated how much his words got to me. I was Riley Bennett, twenty-year-old college junior by day, pretending to be the perfect stepdaughter to my mom’s ridiculously hot tech-mogul husband. But at night? I was “LilaLust,” the cam girl who made bank letting strangers watch me fall apart.

I grabbed the thick body pillow I kept for exactly this, straddled it, and sank down until the fabric pressed right against my clit. A soft moan slipped out—real, not fake for the camera. My hips rolled in slow circles, the way I imagined a man like DaddyD would want: teasing, needy, like I couldn’t help myself.

The tips kept coming. $100. $200. Another $500 with the message:

DaddyD: Good girl. Now pull that thong aside. Let me see how wet you are.

My breath caught. I hooked a finger under the soaked fabric and tugged it to the side, exposing everything. Cool air hit my slick pussy and I whimpered, grinding harder. The chat went wild, but all I heard was the low ping of another massive tip.

That’s when the private message box lit up again.

DaddyD: You’re even prettier than I imagined, Riley.

My hips stuttered to a stop.

Riley.

Not Lila. Not baby girl. Not princess.

Riley.

My real name.

The room tilted. My stomach dropped like I’d missed the last step on a staircase. I stared at the screen, pulse roaring in my ears. No one knew my real name. Not my regulars, not my college friends, not even the site admins unless they dug through my verification docs—and those were locked tighter than Fort Knox.

But he knew.

I forced my hips to keep moving, playing it off for the camera while my brain screamed. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe some creep had done a reverse image search on my face. It happened sometimes. I could block him, end the show, delete my account tonight and—

Another message. This one with a photo attachment.

I clicked it before I could stop myself.

It was a screenshot. Not of me—of him. A man in a sleek black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, sitting at a massive oak desk I knew too well. The same desk in the home office downstairs. The same watch glinting on his wrist—the limited-edition Patek Philippe my mom had given him for their anniversary last year. The same sharp jawline, the same dark stubble, the same storm-gray eyes that had watched me grow up for the past four years.

Damien.

My stepfather.

The man who had married my mom when I was sixteen, the one who paid my tuition without blinking, the one who called me “kiddo” in that low, amused voice that always made my thighs press together when no one was looking.

He was DaddyD.

My biggest tipper. The man who’d been telling me for months how he wanted to bend me over and ruin me. The one who’d just watched me finger myself on camera for him.

A broken sound tore out of my throat—half moan, half sob. My clit throbbed against the pillow even as panic clawed up my spine. I should have logged off. I should have slammed the laptop shut and pretended this was a nightmare.

Instead I read the next message, voice shaking as I whispered it out loud for the mic like the desperate little slut I apparently was.

DaddyD: I’ve known it was you for weeks, baby. Those little freckles on your left tit. The way you bite your lip when you’re close. And that birthmark on your inner thigh that I’ve seen every time you wore those tiny sleep shorts around the house.

He’d been watching me. Not just on cam. In real life.

My pussy clenched so hard I gasped. Shame and lust crashed together inside me until I couldn’t tell which was which. I was still grinding, slower now, almost involuntarily, while my mind spun.

DaddyD: Your mom’s in Milan for the fashion week launch until Sunday. I’m on the red-eye back from San Francisco right now. I’ll be home in four hours.

DaddyD: When I walk through that door, you’re going to be waiting exactly like this. Same lingerie. Same wet little cunt. And you’re going to call me Daddy for real while I finally give you what you’ve been begging for on camera.

My fingers froze on the keyboard. I should type “no.” I should type “this is insane.” I should block him and burn my hard drive.

Instead my traitorous hands typed back:

Me: Yes, Daddy.

The second I hit send, another $1,000 tip hit my account with a single line:

DaddyD: Good girl. Now finish that show for me. Come on that pillow thinking about how I’m going to stretch you open the second I get home.

I did exactly what he told me.