The IP camera in the living room caught everything in grainy but clear night-vision green.
He’s bent over her from behind on the couch, one hand locked on her hip, the other gripping
the back of her neck. Her knees are spread wide on the cushions, ass pushed up, back arched hard. He’s fucking her in a deep, steady doggy rhythm—long strokes that bottom out every time, the wet slap of skin loud in the quiet house. Her face is turned sideways against the armrest, mouth open, eyes half-lidded, taking it without protest. One of her hands is braced under her for balance; the other is between her legs, fingers working her clit in time with his thrusts.
He’s not gentle. When he wants her deeper he yanks her hips back onto him and holds her there, grinding, then resumes the hard pace. Her tits sway under her with every impact. The camera picks up the sound of her muffled moans and the thicker, wetter noise of his cock sliding in and out of her.
He leans over her back, mouth close to her ear, still fucking her without slowing. Whatever he says is too quiet for the mic, but she answers with a shaky “yes, Dad” and pushes back harder onto him. He reaches around, pinches one nipple, then slides his hand down to cover hers so they’re both rubbing her clit while he keeps pounding her.
The timestamp on the footage keeps rolling. Neither of them looks at the camera. They know it’s there. They just don’t stop.
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