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.”