C U M-STURBATION: 20 DADDIES FORBIDDEN TO THE LAST DROP

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 c**k 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 c**t 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 porn 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, c**t throb,and wetness leak free out of my p***y, 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. “f**k!” 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.