Stepdaddy's Cam Girl Part 2

I rode the pillow harder, faster, moaning loud enough for the mic to catch every wet sound. My eyes stayed locked on his username while my mind filled in the blanks—his big hands gripping my hips, that deep voice growling my real name, the thick cock I’d accidentally seen outlined in his sweatpants last summer when he thought I wasn’t looking.

I came so hard my vision whited out, thighs shaking, a broken “Daddy—” ripping from my throat before I could stop it.

The chat erupted. Money rained in. But I barely noticed.

Because in four hours, Damien—my stepdad, my secret obsession, my filthy online Daddy—was coming home.

And I was going to let him destroy me.

I ended the stream with trembling fingers, the aftershocks still pulsing between my legs. My room smelled like sex and vanilla body spray. I peeled off the soaked thong and stared at myself in the full-length mirror: flushed cheeks, messy auburn hair, nipples tight and aching.

Four hours.

I had four hours to decide if I was really going to do this.

But even as I thought it, I was already walking to my closet, pulling out the exact black baby-doll set he’d tipped me $300 to wear last week. The one I’d bought with his money.

I slipped it on, the lace whispering over my still-sensitive skin.

Then I went downstairs, heart hammering, and waited on the big leather couch in the living room—the one he always sat on to watch football while I pretended not to stare.

I spread my legs just a little.

And I waited for my stepdad to come claim what was already his.

I checked my phone for the hundredth time. His flight had landed twenty minutes ago. Traffic from the airport at this hour was light. He could be here any minute.

My stomach flipped with nerves and something darker, hotter. Shame burned in my chest, but it only made my clit throb harder. I was twenty years old, legally an adult, and still living under his roof because Mom insisted “family stays together.” She was halfway across the world right now, sipping champagne at fashion shows, completely clueless that her husband was about to come home and fuck her daughter.

The thought should have made me sick. Instead, I felt another rush of wetness slick my bare thighs. No thong this time. Just like he’d demanded.

Headlights swept across the front windows.

My breath caught. The garage door rumbled open. I heard the low purr of his black Mercedes, then silence as the engine died.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. Unhurried.

The side door from the garage clicked open. Keys hit the marble countertop in the kitchen. A pause. Then the sound of dress shoes on hardwood, moving toward the living room.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My heart slammed so hard I was sure he could hear it from the hallway.

He appeared in the wide archway, still in his tailored charcoal suit, tie loosened, top button undone. The overhead lights caught the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples. At forty-eight, Damien looked like sin wrapped in expensive fabric—broad shoulders, narrow waist, the kind of quiet power that made boardrooms fall silent. His storm-gray eyes locked on me instantly.

And he smiled.

Slow. Predatory. Like he’d been waiting years for this moment.

“Well,” he said, voice low and rough from the flight, “look at my good little girl. Exactly where I told you to be.”

Heat flooded my face. I tried to close my legs on instinct, but his gaze sharpened.

“Don’t,” he commanded softly. “You kept them open for thousands of strangers tonight. You can keep them open for me.”

I swallowed hard and let my knees fall apart again. The cool leather stuck to my damp skin. Damien’s eyes dropped between my thighs, and I watched his jaw tighten, the muscle jumping.

“Fuck, Riley,” he murmured, stepping closer. “You’re dripping already. Been thinking about Daddy the whole time I was in the air?”

I nodded before I could stop myself, voice barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

My nipples tightened painfully. “Yes… Daddy.”

The word felt different now—raw, real, forbidden. It hung in the air between us like smoke.

He shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without breaking eye contact. Then he loosened his tie completely and pulled it free, letting it dangle from his fingers like a promise.

“Stand up,” he said.

I rose on shaky legs. The baby-doll barely reached the tops of my thighs. Damien circled me slowly, like he was inspecting something he’d just bought. When he stopped behind me, his breath brushed the back of my neck.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he said quietly. “Every time you pranced around the house in those tiny shorts after you turned eighteen… every time you called me ‘Dad’ in that sweet voice while I was rock-hard under the dinner table… I told myself I was sick. That I should stay away.”

His hand settled on my hip, warm and heavy through the thin lace. I shivered.

“But then I found your channel. Saw that birthmark. Heard you moan. And I realized you were just as filthy as I was.”

His fingers slid lower, tracing the curve of my ass. I bit my lip to keep from moaning.

“I tipped you because I needed to hear you say it,” he continued, voice dropping. “Needed to watch my little stepdaughter spread her legs and beg for Daddy’s cock on camera. And you did. Every single time.”

He pressed closer until I felt the hard line of his erection against my lower back. Even through his slacks, he felt thick. Big. My pussy clenched around nothing.

“Turn around.”

I obeyed, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. Up close, he smelled like expensive cologne, jet fuel, and something darker—pure male hunger.

Damien cupped my chin, thumb brushing my lower lip. “You can still say no, Riley. Walk upstairs, lock your door, and we’ll pretend this never happened. I’ll even keep paying your tuition. No questions.”

My heart raced. This was my out. The last sane choice.

But my body had already made its decision.

I leaned into his touch, voice trembling but clear. “I don’t want to say no… Daddy.”

His eyes flared with heat. The thumb on my lip pressed harder, then slipped into my mouth. I sucked on it instinctively, tongue swirling like I did on camera when I pretended it was a cock.

“Fuck,” he growled. “Such a greedy little mouth.”

He pulled his thumb free with a wet pop and replaced it with his lips.

The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was four years of pent-up hunger crashing down. His mouth claimed mine, tongue pushing past my lips, tasting me like he owned me. I whimpered into the kiss, hands fisting in his dress shirt. He tasted like mint and sin. One big hand tangled in my auburn hair, tilting my head exactly how he wanted while the other gripped my ass, pulling me flush against his cock.

When he finally broke the kiss, we were both breathing hard.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

I sank down without hesitation, the rug soft under my shins. Damien towered over me, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. The metallic clink sent another rush of wetness down my thighs. He freed himself, and my eyes widened.

His cock was even better than I’d fantasized—thick, long, with a slight upward curve and a heavy vein running along the underside. The head was already glistening with pre-cum, flushed dark and angry. It looked obscene, perfect, and so much bigger in real life than it had in my late-night fantasies. My mouth watered despite the shame twisting in my gut. This was my stepdad’s cock. The same man who used to tuck me in when I was sick. And now I was about to worship it like the desperate cam slut I was.

“Open,” he said, voice rough.