The moving truck groaned behind their old sedan, packed tight with the remnants of their old life—boxes of mismatched dishes, his mother's fragile collection of porcelain figurines, and most importantly, Sam's entire existence crammed into three heavy-duty computer cases. The monitors were wrapped in blankets, the cables coiled carefully in static-free bags. His father had laughed when he saw how meticulously Sam had packed it all.

"You treat that thing like it's your firstborn," he'd said, shaking his head.

Sam hadn't laughed back.

The drive had been long, the kind of trip that made his legs twitch from inactivity. His mother had chattered the whole way—about the new house, the quiet street, the wonderful school district—as if any of that mattered. Sam didn't care about schools. He didn't care about neighbors. He cared about his rig, his scripts, the quiet hum of a server kicking to life in the dead of night when no one else was awake to interrupt him.

When they finally pulled up to the new house, it was exactly as bland as he'd expected. Two stories, beige siding, a neatly trimmed lawn that looked like it had never known a single weed. Next door, an almost identical house stood, except theirs had dark blue shutters and⁠—

Cameras.

Small, black domes tucked under the eaves. A home security system.

Sam's fingers flexed at his sides. A flicker of interest in an otherwise gray landscape.

Inside, the house smelled like fresh paint and emptiness. His parents bustled around while Sam hauled his computer upstairs to his new room, his new command center. The space was bigger than his old one, with a wide window that faced the neighbor's house directly. He set up his monitors first, the familiar ritual of it settling something restless in his chest. The precise alignment of the screens, the satisfying click of each cable connecting—this was the control he craved. This was home.

Dinner was eaten off paper plates, his parents too exhausted to unpack the kitchen. His mother kept glancing at him, that hopeful look in her eyes.

"The neighbors have a daughter your age," she said, nudging a slice of greasy pizza toward him. "Emily, I think her name is. You should introduce yourself tomorrow."

Sam grunted, shoving a bite into his mouth so he wouldn't have to answer. He didn't want to meet anyone. But a name had been put to the house with the cameras. Emily.

Later, when the house had finally gone quiet, Sam sat in the glow of his screens. His fingers flew over the keyboard, a digital cartographer mapping the unseen landscape of his new territory. He pulled up network scans, poking at the weak points of the neighborhood's Wi-Fi signals. Most were locked down tight, with modern encryption he could crack, but not without effort.

But one was different. HomeSecure-2G.

He probed it gently. Laughably vulnerable. Default credentials. Outdated firmware. He could see a rudimentary alert system for remote access, but the protocol was so poorly implemented he could spoof the MAC address in his sleep. Sloppy. It was a gaping backdoor just waiting for someone like him to stroll right through.

For a moment, he hesitated. The little thrill he felt was a warning sign.

He shouldn't.

But the feeling was already curling low in his stomach, that familiar rush of power, of knowing something he wasn't supposed to. It was about seeing the architecture of people's lives, the secrets they kept behind flimsy digital walls.

With a final, decisive click, he was in. The feed loaded.

Black-and-white night vision flickered across his screen. A kitchen, empty. A hallway, dark. Then⁠—

A bedroom.

And in it, a girl.

Emily.

She was perched on the edge of her bed, phone in hand, biting her lip as she scrolled. Even through the black-and-white footage, Sam could see the way her hair fell over her shoulder, the way her legs—bare under a too-short sleep shirt—swung idly against the mattress.

Then her head snapped up.

A shadow moved at the window.

Sam leaned forward, pulse jumping.

A boy—older, taller—hauled himself inside, landing with a quiet thud on her carpet. Static crackled through Sam's speakers suddenly—the audio feed activating with a lag. Emily grinned, tossing her phone aside as she breathed:

"Jake. Finally."

Then she crossed the room in two strides, her hands already on him.

Sam's breath caught. They kissed like they were starving for it, the boy's—Jake's—fingers tangling in her hair, Emily's arms locking around his neck. Then he was pushing her back, shoving her shirt up, his mouth on her skin⁠—

And Sam couldn't look away.

The speakers carried their ragged breathing now—wet mouth sounds, fabric rustling, the creak of the bed. Not perfect quality, but clear enough to make every whisper of sound feel devastatingly intimate.

Sam's fingers tightened on the edge of his desk.

This was wrong.

He knew it was wrong.

But his body didn't care.

Emily's hands went to Jake's belt, her fingers working the buckle. A quiet metallic jingle came through the speakers—the belt coming loose—followed by the whisper of denim sliding down hips. Then she was on her knees, and⁠—

Oh.

Sam's throat went dry.

The audio feed carried the wet, rhythmic sounds now—the slick push-pull of Emily's mouth working Jake's cock, interrupted only by his sharp inhales and the occasional creak of the floorboards as he shifted his stance.

He should close the feed.

He should.

But his hand was already sliding into his lap, his cock hardening as he watched, transfixed, as Emily took Jake into her mouth.

And for the first time since they'd arrived in this stupid, sterile neighborhood⁠—

Sam didn't feel bored at all.

His fingers dug into his thighs as he watched, his breath coming faster as Emily's lips stretched around Jake's cock. The camera angle was perfect—just high enough to see the way her throat fluttered when he pushed deeper, the way her fingers gripped his hips to keep him still. The audio crackled slightly but carried every obscene detail—the wet pop when Emily pulled off to gasp for air, the choked moan Jake couldn't suppress when she took him deep again.

Sam's hand slipped under his waistband, his length hot and aching in his palm. He stroked slowly at first, just enough pressure to make his hips twitch, his eyes glued to the screen as Jake's head tipped back, his mouth falling open in a silent groan.

Emily pulled off with that same wet sound, licking her lips before taking him right back down, her dark eyelashes fluttering. Jake's fingers twisted in her hair, not guiding, just holding, like he didn't trust himself not to fuck her throat raw if he let go.

The bedframe knocked against the wall—a dull thud through the speakers—as Jake suddenly hauled Emily up and shoved her onto the mattress. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he announced approvingly. Then spread her wide with both hands—Sam could see the swollen pink folds slick—before landing a sharp smack directly on her clit. Emily gasped, shuddered as Jake latched onto her without warning.

Emily writhed on her stomach, one hand fisted in the pillow crying out while Jake flattened his tongue completely over her opening, spreading her wider still to suck hard at her entrance. Her hips bucked helplessly as he slowly rammed two tattooed fingers upward into her tightness while maintaining pressure. The slick, squelching sounds leaked through the feed. Jake pulled back just long enough to murmur wetly into the open snatch. “So fucking sweet. Gonna drown me?”

He didn’t wait. His tongue drilled between bunched-up flesh as he rutted his face deeper. The sounds amplified viciously when his palm ground hard against her mound, forcing her cunt tighter onto his mouth and stroking fingers.

Sam found himself mirroring the rhythm Jake set. He dragged his thumb through the sticky precum pooled at his slit before stroking firmly over his swollen ridge in steady matching circles.

One of Emily’s trembling thighs hooked backward over Jake’s muscular shoulder, forcing her dripping core wider. She almost sobbed when he abruptly ceased sucking. Instead, Jake slid effortlessly upward, lined his engorged, wet cockhead against her slicked entrance, and slammed into her in one brutal thrust that made the entire bed groan. Sam clenched hard around his own shaft. The initial scream Emily let out dissolved into guttural whimpers when Jake began a ruthless pounding from behind.

He didn’t hold back. Each sharp thrust pushed Emily up the mattress, skewering her violently as the bed frame slammed rhythmically against her bedroom wall directly below the camera mic, loud enough to echo. Jake gripped her hips, spreading her cheeks even wider. Sam tracked the spreading leaks dripping down the inside of Emily’s trembling thighs.

Jake's thrusts turned jagged and uncoordinated, his hips snapping forward with desperate, hungry little jerks. Emily's breathy whimpers filled the room—muffled through the camera's tinny speakers but there, just barely loud enough to make Sam's pulse hammer in his ears.

One of her hands tangled in the sheets, the other dragging blunt nails down Jake's sweat-slick back as he buried himself to the hilt with a choked-off groan. His rhythm faltered, his muscles locking tight—and then he was tearing himself out of her, his cock glistening under the dim bedroom light as he fisted himself roughly.

The first thick stripe of cum painted Emily's cheekbone, pearly white against her flushed skin. The next landed on her chin, another streaking across her parted lips. Jake shuddered, hips twitching as he emptied himself over her, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

Emily didn't flinch. Didn't wipe it away. Just licked her lips deliberately, her tongue darting out to catch the bitter salt of him before it could drip onto the sheets beneath her.

Sam's hand was a blur between his legs, his own release coiling tight in his gut. He felt it—Jake's rough fingers in his hair, Emily's soft lips around the head of his cock, the way she'd look up at him with those pretty blue eyes⁠—

His climax hit him like a live wire.

Heat flooded his stomach, his hips bucking helplessly as he came in thick spurts across his hand. His back arched off the chair, teeth sinking into his lower lip hard enough to hurt as pleasure crackled up his spine.

On screen, Jake tapped his softening cock against Emily's lips. "Clean me up, baby."

She opened her mouth obediently, her tongue swiping along his length until no trace remained. Sam watched her hollowed cheeks, the way her throat worked as she swallowed.

Jake tugged his pants up with one hand, buckling his belt with the other. He leaned down to kiss the top of Emily's head. “Got to go, doll.” Then leaned close to murmur: “Smile pretty for Daddy when he comes home wondering why his princess looks so wrecked.”

Then he was gone—out the window as quietly as he'd come, leaving Emily sitting cross-legged on the rumpled sheets.

A single tear cut through the drying streaks on her cheek.

Sam's spent cock gave a weak throb.

Sam's sheets were damp with sweat when he woke. The digital clock read 8:17 AM, but his body felt like it hadn't slept at all. Every time he'd closed his eyes, he'd seen it again—Emily's lips stretched around Jake's cock, the way her throat had worked and finally his cum on her face.

Downstairs, the clatter of dishes and his mother's voice pulled him fully awake. "Sam! Pancakes are getting cold!"

He dressed quickly, pausing only to open his laptop and check the feed. The black-and-white image showed an empty bedroom next door, rumpled sheets still twisted from last night's activities. He minimized the window but left it running.

The kitchen smelled of maple syrup and coffee. His parents sat at the table, already deep in conversation about the neighborhood. Sam slid into his seat and poured orange juice, letting their words wash over him as he mechanically cut his pancakes.

"You'll love the high school," his mother was saying. "They have an excellent robotics team."

Sam nodded, his mind still next door. He wondered if Emily was awake yet, if she'd washed Jake's cum off her face before going to sleep. The thought made his cock twitch.

When his father started discussing garbage pickup schedules, Sam saw his chance. "I'm gonna go unpack some more boxes," he said, leaving half his breakfast untouched.

Back in his room, he locked the door and returned to the feed. The camera view had changed—now it showed the kitchen next door. Emily sat at the table in shorts and a tank top, pushing scrambled eggs around her plate. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, dark circles under her eyes.

A woman entered the frame—Emily's mother Madison. Even through the grainy footage, she was striking. Blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders, a silk robe tied loosely enough to reveal generous cleavage. Her breasts were impossible to ignore—perfectly round, suspiciously firm, the kind that defied both gravity and middle age. They strained against the thin silk with every breath, the outline of erect nipples clearly visible where the fabric caught against them. The kind of body that whispered "expensive maintenance"—the surgical kind that came with a five-figure price tag and required regular tune-ups.

As she reached for the coffee carafe, the robe fell open another inch, revealing the faint white lines beneath each breast where they'd been lifted and refashioned into something pornographic. The nipples stayed pert even in the morning chill, two obvious peaks in the thin fabric that seemed to point at whatever she looked at like fleshy compass needles.

Emily didn't even glance up from her eggs. She'd seen this show before.

"Late night?" Madison asked, her voice clear through the feed's audio.

Emily didn't look up. "Just couldn't sleep."

Madison smirked and sipped her coffee. "Mmm. That why your window was open all night? Letting in some fresh air?"

Sam's breath caught. Had Madison heard them? Seen them? Emily's fingers tightened around her fork, but she didn't respond.

When Emily stood abruptly and grabbed her sneakers, Sam moved without thinking. He shut the laptop and bolted downstairs, out the front door just as she stepped onto her porch.

"Hey," he called, pretending to check the mailbox. "You're Emily, right?"

She paused, squinting at him in the morning light. "Yeah. You're the new kid?"

"Sam." He stepped closer, trying not to stare at the faint remains of a bruise on her collarbone. "We've just moved in next door."

Emily nodded, shifting her weight. She looked tired up close, her usual vibrancy muted. "Welcome to the neighborhood, I guess."

Before Sam could respond, the screen door creaked open behind her. Madison stepped out, the morning sun turning her blonde hair golden. Her robe fluttered slightly in the breeze, revealing toned legs beneath the silk.

"Well hello there," she said, her voice warm and amused. "You must be our new neighbor." Up close, Madison was even more striking. Her eyes were the same blue as Emily's, but where Emily's were sharp, Madison's were knowing. She extended a hand, her nails perfectly manicured. "I'm Madison."

"Sam," he managed, shaking her hand. Her skin was soft, her grip just a fraction too long.

"Mom," Emily said, her voice tight. "We were just..."

"Getting acquainted?" Madison finished for her, smiling. "Why don't you show Sam around the neighborhood, sweetheart?"

Emily's jaw clenched. She muttered something under her breath that Sam couldn't quite catch before turning away. "Come on," she said over her shoulder.

Sam hesitated, caught between Emily's retreating back and Madison's amused smile. The older woman winked at him. "Go on," she said. "She doesn't bite. Much."

As Sam hurried after Emily, he glanced back once. Madison was still watching him, one hand holding her robe closed at the throat, the other resting on her hip. She looked like she knew every thought in his head.

The sidewalk was still damp from morning dew as Emily led Sam down the street, her hands deep in her pockets. She walked like someone trying to disappear into her clothes—shoulders hunched, chin tucked.

Sam matched her pace, stealing glances at the faint yellow-green smudges along her forearm where her sleeve had ridden up. Old bruises, almost faded. He wondered if they were fingerprints.

"You don't have to do this, you know," Sam said, kicking a pebble. "The whole tour guide thing."

"I want to." The lie came easy. "Unless you've got somewhere better to be."

He snorted. "Not really."

They passed a row of nearly identical houses. Sam pointed at a blue colonial with an overgrown lawn. "Who lives there?"

"Old lady Ferguson. She yells at you if your ball lands in her flowers." A hint of a smile. "I used to climb her fence to get them back."

"Yeah?" Sam grinned. "Get caught?"

"Every time." Emily's posture loosened slightly. "She'd make me cookies while lecturing me about trespassing."

The rhythm of their conversation settled into something easier as they looped through the neighborhood. Emily pointed out the shortcut to the 7-Eleven, the house where a kid broke his arm jumping off the roof last summer, the spot by the storm drain where the feral cats gathered at dusk.

Sam watched her come alive with each story—the way her hands escaped her pockets to gesture, how her voice lost its guarded edge.

Then a car door slammed.

Emily went rigid. A black Mustang idled at the curb, driver's window rolled down. Jake's arm rested on the frame, his fingers drumming impatiently.

"Well look at this," he called, voice slick with false cheer. "You stealing my girl, new kid?"

Sam's mouth went dry. Up close, Jake was all hard angles—sharp jaw, sharper eyes. His smile didn't reach them.

Emily stepped between them. "He's harmless. Just the neighbor's kid I'm showing around."

Jake's gaze flicked over Sam like he was assessing something to be scraped off his shoe. "Yeah? Well, show's over." He jerked his chin at the car. "Get in."

The command hung in the air. Emily hesitated just long enough for Sam to see the tension in her jaw—then she yanked the passenger door open.

Jake leaned across the seat as she climbed in. "Stay away from her," he told Sam, quiet and cold. "Or we'll have a problem."

The Mustang peeled away before Sam could respond, leaving him standing alone on the sidewalk with the scent of burnt rubber in his nostrils.

Back in his room, he pulled up the camera feed. The bedroom was empty.

For now.

Sam sat in the blue glow of his laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard. The house next door was quiet—no laughter, no moans, no telltale creak of bedsprings. Just the hum of the AC and the occasional murmur of voices through thin walls.

He should have been relieved.

Instead, his stomach twisted.

Jake's Mustang had peeled away hours ago, Emily inside. She hadn't come home until after dark, moving like a ghost through the kitchen, barely touching the dinner left out for her. Now, in her bedroom, she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. No tears. No anger. Just... nothing.

She just plugged her phone in, turned off the light, and curled under the covers.

No show tonight.

He exhaled, frustrated, and switched feeds.

The master bathroom was steamy, the camera blurry at the edges. Madison stood under the spray, water sluicing down her body—over her full, soap-slick breasts, her thumbs circling nipples that stiffened under her touchHer head fell back, water running down her throat, into the deep valley between her tits, over the smooth swell of her belly⁠—

Then lower.

She traced her slit, then pressed two fingers deep inside herself, her mouth falling open in a silent gasp as she pumped them in and out. Her other hand found her breast again, pinching the nipple hard, twisting it until her back arched off the shower wall.

Then the water shut off. She stepped out, glistening, and grabbed a towel. Sam barely had time to process before she dropped it, letting it puddle on the floor. Naked, she walked toward the bedroom. He quickly switched feeds, tracking her through the house, heart hammering in time with her steps.

The bedroom was dim. Emily's dad lay sprawled on the bed, already naked, his thick cock resting against his thigh, half-hard.

Madison didn't walk—she poured into the room, all sinuous movement and knowing silence. The door barely made a sound as she closed it behind her. Then she was on the mattress, crawling up his body with the slow precision of someone that had done this a thousand times before. No hesitation. Her hands slid up his thighs, her breath warm against his skin as she neared his cock.

“Fuck, Maddie…”

She ignored him. Her lips parted, and she took the swollen head into her mouth, sucking hard. Saliva pooled instantly, dripping down his shaft as she hollowed her cheeks, drawing him deeper. Her throat muscles fluttered visibly as she took him to the root, her nose pressing into his pubic bone. The wet, gagging sounds filled Sam’s speakers—the obscene slurp as she pulled back, then the deep, guttural choke as she swallowed him whole again.

Sam stopped breathing.

Madison paused there, hovering, her full lips parting as she exhaled deliberately, the heat of her breath making his cock twitch and swell further against his thigh. She traced one fingernail along the underside, watching it thicken and rise, veins pulsing under the skin like rivers swelling in a storm. Her husband's breath hitched, a low rumble building in his chest as she leaned in closer, her tongue darting out to lap at the bead of precum gathering at the tip—salty and thick, coating her taste buds as she savored it with a soft, appreciative hum.

Madison's tongue flicked out—just once, a testing stroke along the underside of his cock—before her lips parted in a slow, deliberate surrender. She took him in one excruciating inch at a time, her hot mouth a velvet vise. The wet, obscene glide of her throat stretching to accommodate him, her lips sealed tight at the root like she was born to choke on him.

Saliva pooled at the corners of her mouth, dribbling down in thin streams as she held him there, her throat contracting around his girth in rhythmic pulses that made the bulge visible along her neck. She pulled back slowly, strings of spit stretching and snapping between her swollen lips and his glistening shaft, only to drive forward again—deeper this time, her nose grinding against his pubic bone while her tongue writhed underneath, pressing firm against the pulsing vein. The room filled with the slick, guttural sounds of her work: the gagging squelch as she forced him past her limits, the wet smack of her lips sealing around him, her own muffled moans vibrating through his flesh.

Saliva slicked down his shaft, glistening in the dim light as she pulled back—only to plunge down again, deeper this time, her throat fluttering around him in rhythmic swallows. One hand crept between his legs, fingertips tracing the tight heat of his balls, rolling them in her palm just hard enough to make his hips jerk.

She kneaded them gently at first, then firmer, her nails grazing the sensitive skin until his sack drew up tight, heavy with building pressure. His fingers clenched in the sheets, knuckles whitening as she bobbed her head in earnest now—faster, messier, spit foaming at the edges of her mouth and dripping onto his thighs. Madison's free hand slipped between her legs, circling her clit in time with her swallows, her arousal evident in the way her hips rocked subtly against nothing, a slick trail glistening down her inner thigh.

She pulled off with a slick release, a silver strand of spit still connecting her swollen lips to his cock. Without breaking rhythm, she slithered up his body in one fluid motion, her tits dragging across his stomach, her pussy leaving a hot trail along his length until she straddled his hips.

Her fingers wrapped around him, angling his cock upward as she lowered herself—not in a rush, but with devastating control. Sam could almost feel the stretch as she took her husband, her body opening inch by inch until his pelvis pressed flush against her ass. A sigh shuddered out of her, her nails biting into his chest as she adjusted, her tits swaying with the shallow roll of her hips.

Then she moved.

Madison rode him like it was a ritual—hips rising in one long, smooth motion until the head of his cock threatened to slip free, then plunging back down. Over. And over. Her breasts—too perfect, too round—hardly moved at all, just a subtle sway with each deep thrust.

The wet squelch of her pussy gripping him echoed through the speakers with every descent, her arousal coating his shaft in a shiny sheen that dripped down to pool at the base. She ground her clit against him on each bottom-out, her breath escaping in sharp, needy gasps, her inner walls clenching visibly around him like a fist tightening in waves. His hands finally moved, groping her ass cheeks and spreading them wide, fingers digging into the firm flesh as he met her downward thrusts with upward snaps—skin slapping against skin in a building crescendo, her juices splattering lightly with each impact.

Her eyes stayed locked on her husband's face, pupils blown wide, mouth slightly parted. Predatory. Like she was measuring exactly how much he could take before breaking. Sam counted the strokes without meaning to. Twelve. Twenty. Thirty. Her thighs flexed each time she took him to the hilt, the muscles taut under golden skin. A sheen of sweat gathered between her tits, catching the light.

Then she dismounted.

No words. Just the slick sound of separation as she turned onto her hands and knees beside him, spine arched, ass raised in offering. Her hand reached out to the bedside drawer, emerging with a small bottle. A click of the cap. The glisten of lube between her fingers as she worked it into herself, two digits disappearing to prepare the way.

She took her time, scissoring her fingers inside with deliberate twists, a soft whine escaping her lips as she stretched herself open—lube trickling down her thighs in shiny rivulets, mixing with her own slickness. Her husband watched, his cock twitching against his stomach, before he joined in, coating his fingers in the excess and pressing one alongside hers, the dual intrusion making her gasp and rock back greedily.

Her husband watched, chest heaving, before spitting into his own palm and slicking his cock thicker.

Madison pushed back against nothing, her hole clenching around air, presenting. An invitation.

He didn't hesitate.

The first inch was a slow conquest, her body resisting then yielding in increments. She exhaled through clenched teeth as he bottomed out, her knuckles whitening on the sheets. For three long strokes, he moved like he was afraid she'd shatter—then something snapped.

Harder now. Faster. His balls slapped against her, swinging with each thrust as her ass rippled under the impact. The bed rocked, the headboard hammering the wall in time with their ragged breathing.

The pace built to a frenzy, each plunge eliciting a meaty smack as his hips collided with her cheeks, sending ripples through her flesh that made her breasts swing pendulously below. Madison pushed back to meet him, her brown hole gripping him like a vice on every withdrawal, the lube foaming white around his shaft as friction turned it slick and messy. Sweat flew from their bodies with each impact, her moans rising to sharp cries that synced with the wet squelch of penetration, her fingers frantically rubbing her clit to chase the building pressure.

Sam's hand was moving before he realized it, fingers digging into his thigh before sliding up to grip himself. He didn't remember unzipping. Didn't remember spitting into his palm. But his cock was throbbing in his fist, strokes matching the brutal rhythm of Madison's husband pistoning into her ass.

"Fuck—yes, like that—" His whisper was raw, urging the man on as if he could be heard through the screen. "Give it to her, give her all of it⁠—"

Madison's ass jiggled with each slap of skin, her husband's balls swinging wildly. Sam's hips jerked upward into his grip, precum smearing his stomach. He was close. So close.

On screen, Madison's husband snarled something unintelligible, his fingers biting into her hips as he bottomed out⁠—

Sam came with a choked gasp, stripes of white painting his abdomen at the exact moment the man stilled inside Madison, his release pulsing into her. The camera captured every detail: the way her body shuddered with each hot jet filling her, her hole clenching greedily around him as if milking out every drop, a thin trickle of cum escaping to drip down her thighs when he finally withdrew with a obscene, sucking pop. For three shuddering seconds, they were synchronized: the husband's growl, Sam's whimper, Madison's throaty moan as her body milked them both dry. Panting, Sam collapsed back in his chair. The screen flickered—Madison's husband pulling out, her asshole glistening—but his sticky fingers were already fumbling for the keyboard, switching feeds before the afterglow could fade.

Emily's room was dark.

She lay exactly as he'd left her: curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek. The streetlight through her window caught the dried salt tracks under her eyes.

And here Sam sat, cum cooling on his skin, watching a girl who didn't know he was watching.

Sam's mom had insisted he ride with Emily to school that morning. "It'll be good for you," she'd said, her tone light but firm. "You're new here, and Emily knows the place better than anyone." Madison, on the other hand, had been more direct with Emily. "Take him with you," she'd said, brushing her daughter's hair aside. "It's just a ride. Besides, it's good for you to make... connections."

Sam waited outside, back against the car, pretending to check his phone. When Emily finally emerged, she was quiet, her usual confidence dimmed. She gave him a nod, sliding into the driver's seat without a word.

The ride started in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Sam glanced at her, trying to gauge her mood. Her hands were steady on the wheel, but her jaw was tight, like she was holding something back.

"You don't have to do this," Sam finally said, breaking the tension. "I mean, I can find my way to school. It's not a big deal."

Emily shook her head. "It's fine. Mom insisted." She paused, then added, "And... it's not like I'm in a rush or anything."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You seem like you're in a hurry to get somewhere."

Emily hesitated, her fingers tapping the wheel. "I... have to see the counselor in about an hour," she admitted.

Sam frowned. "Counselor? Everything okay?"

She let out a short laugh, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Not really. My grades are... well, they're not great. And I've got a lot of detentions stacked up. They're talking about conditional enrollment."

Sam blinked, surprised. "Wait, really? You? You seem..."

"Like I've got it all together?" She glanced at him, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Yeah, that's what everyone thinks."

Sam hesitated, then plunged ahead. "Is it because of... your boyfriend?"

Emily's grip tightened on the wheel, but she didn't answer. Instead, she said, "It's just stuff. Life. You know how it is."

Sam didn't press. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, staring out the window as the neighborhoods blurred past. "What's the counselor going to say?"

Emily shrugged. "Probably give me a lecture. Maybe make me do extra credit. Honestly, I don't know if it'll even make a difference at this point."

Sam thought for a moment, then turned to her. "What if I could help?"

Emily glanced at him, confused. "Help? With what?"

"Your grades. I mean, I'm not a genius or anything, but I'm decent with computers. Our old school had this system—if it's anything like that, I could probably figure it out. Maybe... tweak a few things."

Emily's eyes widened, and she quickly looked back at the road. "You're saying you could fix my grades?"

Sam shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I mean, sure. If the system's not too complicated. It's not like I'm hacking the Pentagon or anything."

For the first time since they'd gotten in the car, Emily smiled. A real smile. "You'd really do that? For me?"

Sam felt a flicker of warmth at her reaction but tamped it down. "Yeah, why not? It's not that big a deal."

Emily was quiet for a moment, then said softly, "Thank you. I... didn't expect that."

"Don't thank me yet," Sam said, grinning. "I haven't even tried yet."

The rest of the ride was easier, the tension between them diminishing as they talked.

Emily leaned against the wall of the empty classroom, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Are you sure you can do this?" she asked, her voice low but tinged with anxiety. "We won't get caught? I'm in enough trouble as it is."

Sam glanced up from the basic school computer he'd just booted up, his fingers already probing the keyboard. "I'm not sure if I can get in from here," he admitted, "but if I do, I won't leave a trail. I'm not an amateur." He paused, frowning at the screen as access denied messages flickered up. "This one's connected to the network, but it's too restricted—I need a terminal that's directly tied to the school's admin system. Something with higher privileges, probably in a locked office or back room. And make sure no one disturbs me while I work."

Emily nodded, her expression serious. "I'll take care of it." She disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a keycard she'd swiped from a nearby staff lounge and a quiet assurance that the adjacent admin room was now accessible. "This gets us into the back office—they use it for records. No one's going to come in here; I locked the outer door."

Sam gave her a quick nod, moving to the admin terminal in the secured space. He booted it up, his fingers moving with ease as he navigated through the system's defenses. Within minutes, he muttered, "I'm in." He glanced at Emily. "Full name and date of birth?"

"Emily Maria Johansson," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "July 26th, 2007."

Sam typed it in, pulling up her records. He scrolled through the entries, his brow furrowing. "Looks like the issues started about three months ago," he said, more to himself than to her. He glanced up. "What do you want changed?"

Emily hesitated, then leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the screen. "These absences—they're marked as unexcused, but I was sick. And these grades..." She trailed off, her voice faltering. "I didn't do that badly."

Sam nodded, making the adjustments quickly and efficiently. As he worked, he also set up a backdoor into the system, a small program that would let him log in remotely if needed. "Done," he said finally, leaning back in the chair. "You're good to go."

Emily let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "Thank you," she said softly. "I mean it. You didn't have to do this."

Sam shrugged, trying to play it cool. "It's no big deal. Just... don't make me regret it, okay?"

She smiled, a genuine one this time. "I won't."

Later that day, Emily sat across from the school counselor, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The man scanned her updated records, his expression shifting from stern to mildly surprised. "Well," he said finally, "it seems your truancy wasn't as bad as I was led to believe. And your grades... they're not great, but they're not as dire as I thought."

Emily nodded, keeping her face neutral. "I've been trying to do better," she said, her voice steady. "It's just been... a rough few months."

The counselor sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. But I want to see improvement, Emily. No more missed classes, no more excuses. Understood?"

"Understood," she said, relief flooding her voice.

At the end of the day, Emily waited by her car, her mood noticeably lighter. When Sam approached, she didn't hesitate—she stepped forward and hugged him, her body pressing against his. "Thank you," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

Sam froze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden closeness. The warmth of her body against his was electric, and he could feel the soft curve of her breasts pressing into him. His breath hitched, his mind scrambling to process the sensation. It was innocent—just a hug—but his body seemed to have other ideas. He felt a rush of heat, and before he could stop it, he was painfully aware of the blood rushing south.

Shit, he thought, his heart pounding. Did she feel that?

He hesitated, his hands hovering awkwardly before he finally rested them lightly on her shoulders. "It's nothing," he said, his voice softer than he intended. He tried to shift his weight subtly, hoping to create some space, but Emily didn't pull away. "Just... don't let Jake drag you down, okay?"

Emily pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. There was something unspoken in her gaze, a flicker of gratitude and something else—something Sam couldn't quite place. Her cheeks were flushed, and for a moment, he wondered if she'd noticed. But if she did, she didn't let on. "I won't," she said quietly. "I promise."

Sam forced a smile, trying to ignore the lingering heat in his face and the way his pulse still raced. He took a deliberate step back, putting a little distance between them. "Good," he said, his voice steadier now.

They got into the car, and the drive was quieter than before, the air between them charged with unspoken tension. Sam kept his eyes on the road, his mind replaying the hug and the way her body had felt against his. He stole glances at her occasionally, but Emily seemed lost in thought, her fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel.

When they finally pulled up to Sam's house, he unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to her. "Thanks for the ride," he said, his voice casual but his heart still beating a little too fast.

Emily smiled, her expression warm but still distant. "No problem. Thanks again for... everything."

Sam nodded, opening the door and stepping out. He hesitated for a moment, then leaned back in. "I'll, uh... see you tomorrow?"

Emily's smile softened, and for a moment, it felt like the tension between them eased. "Maybe."

As she drove away, Sam exhaled sharply, his mind still reeling. He waited until she was out of sight before muttering to himself, "Get it together, man." But even as he entered the house, he couldn't shake the memory of her body against his—or the way it had made him feel.

Sam sat at his desk, the glow of his monitors casting long shadows across the room. The single camera feed from next door felt like a tease now—a narrow window into a world he needed to see fully. Emily's room. The hallway. The bathroom. If he was going to watch over her—really watch over her—he needed more eyes.

He cracked his knuckles and dove in. The neighbors' security system was still a joke, its outdated firmware like a welcome mat for someone like him. He probed deeper this time, mapping out the network of cameras throughout the house. Kitchen. Living room. Master bedroom. And yes—the upstairs bathroom.

With a few custom scripts, he spoofed admin credentials and rerouted the feeds to his own server. No alerts triggered. No traces left. By the time he was done, he had a multi-view grid on his screen, each window a portal into their lives.

He leaned back, satisfied.

The sink faucet turned on with a soft rush, pulling Sam's attention. Emily stepped into frame, already stripped down to nothing, her reflection clear in the large mirror above the basin. She grabbed a soft washcloth from the counter, holding it under the warm stream. She pumped soap onto it—thick, creamy lather bubbling up with a subtle floral scent that mixed with the rising steam, faintly fogging the edges of thee camera.

Starting at her neck, she dragged the cloth in slow, circular strokes, the fabric gliding over her skin and leaving trails of suds that traced the curve of her collarbone. Water beaded and dripped between her breasts—full and perky, nipples tightening as the cool air contrasted with the warmth—before she brought the cloth lower, cupping each one gently, the soapy texture making her skin glisten under the bathroom lights.

Sam's breath caught, his eyes fixed on the way the cloth molded to her body, the faint squelch of wet fabric against flesh as she worked downward. She rinsed the cloth under the faucet, the water turning milky with soap, then reapplied it to her stomach, scrubbing in firm lines that accentuated the subtle flex of her abs. Bending slightly, she parted her legs for better access, the cloth dipping between her thighs—gliding over her folds with careful, thorough passes, the suds foaming white against her trimmed curls before rinsing away in rivulets that trickled down her inner thighs.

She set the cloth aside, drying off with a quick pat of a towel, then reached for a small pair of grooming scissors and a hand mirror from the counter. Sitting on the edge of the closed toilet seat, she positioned the mirror between her spread legs, angling it to see clearly. Her fingers combed through the dark curls first, separating them with gentle tugs that made her skin flush. Then, with precise snips, she began trimming—short, careful clips that echoed softly in the room, stray hairs fluttering to the floor like confetti. The process exposed more of her smooth skin, her folds parting slightly with each adjustment, the pink inner lips glistening faintly from the residual moisture. She paused to blow away clippings, her breath warm against herself, before resuming, shaping the patch into a neat landing strip.

Sam leaned closer, pulse quickening at the intimacy of it—the way her body responded to her touch, the scissors' metallic snick punctuating the quiet. It was mundane, yet profoundly erotic, a private ritual laid bare.

Emily finished with a final inspection in the mirror, running her fingers over the freshly trimmed area to check for evenness, before standing to rinse the scissors and sweep up the clippings. She wrapped herself in a towel and left the bathroom, oblivious to her unseen audience.

But the show wasn't over.

Minutes later, her bedroom feed flickered to life. Emily had just dropped the towel when a shadow appeared at the window. Jake hauled himself inside, his grin sharp as he took in her naked form.

"Miss me?" he said, voice low and rough.

Emily didn't smile back. "What are you doing here?"

Jake didn't answer with words. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing her waist and pulling her close. His mouth crashed against hers, hungry and demanding. Emily's hands pushed at his chest for a split second—then fisted in his shirt, pulling him tighter.

Sam's stomach twisted, but he couldn't look away.

Jake broke the kiss, shoving her toward the bed. "On your knees."

Emily hesitated, her eyes flicking to the window, but she sank down anyway. Her fingers worked his belt open. She tugged his jeans down, his cock springing free—thick and veined, already hard.

She opened her mouth, but Jake didn't wait. He grabbed the back of her head with both hands and slammed his hips forward, forcing his entire length down her throat in one brutal thrust.

Emily choked, eyes bulging, her throat convulsing violently around the sudden invasion. Tears sprang instantly as Jake held her there, nose mashed against his pelvis, her airway blocked. Her face flushed crimson as she struggled, muffled gagging sounds vibrating through his cock. He kept her pinned, watching her suffocate for ten agonizing seconds before yanking out just enough for her to suck in a ragged, wet gasp through her nose.

"That's it, bitch. Breathe around it," he grunted, then shoved back in, deeper, grinding the swollen crown against her spasming throat. Her nostrils flared wide, sucking desperate, shallow breaths as he began a relentless rhythm—pounding her face with short, brutal strokes that left thick ropes of drool dripping from her jaw onto her bare chest. Her mascara streaked black trails down her cheeks.

He kept it up for a minute—her face purpling, throat distended obscenely with each deep plunge—before stopping abruptly, buried to the root. With his left hand still fisted in her hair, his right hand snaked up and pinched her nostrils shut, cutting off her only oxygen. Her eyes widened in panic, her body bucking wildly as her lungs burned. He held her like that for another five seconds, watching tears stream down her face, then finally released her nose. She sucked in a shuddering, snot-filled breath just as he pulled out entirely.

"Bed," he ordered. "Ass hanging off the edge."

Emily scrambled onto the mattress, lying back as Jake stripped fully. He climbed over her, positioning himself between her legs. No preamble—he thrust in hard, bottoming out in one stroke. Emily gasped, her back arching off the bed, nails digging into his shoulders.

The audio captured every detail: the slick slap of skin, her breathy moans syncing with his grunts, the bed creaking under their weight. Jake set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward, his cock glistening with her arousal on every withdrawal. Emily's legs wrapped around him, heels digging into his ass to pull him deeper, her tits bouncing with each impact.

Sam's hand moved faster now, matching their rhythm, his mind overlaying the scene—imagining it was him inside her, feeling her clench around him.

Jake pulled out suddenly, fisting himself. "Open your mouth."

Emily obeyed, tongue out as he stroked himself to the edge. The first thick wad hit her cheekbone, sliding down in a viscous trail. The second landed across her eyelids, forcing them shut as the warm, sticky fluid seeped into her lashes. The third shot landed directly on her parted lips, coating them white, the salty-bitter tang making her gag reflexively as some seeped into her mouth.

"Open your eyes, dumb cunt," Jake snarled, grabbing her jaw to keep her head still as his cock pulsed again, painting her forehead and matting strands of her hair against her skin. More streaks landed on her chin, dripping down her neck to pool in the hollow of her throat. He used the head of his cock like a paintbrush, smearing the mess across her cheeks, grinding the sticky tip against her closed eyelids until she whimpered. "Look at you. Nothing but a fucking cum rag."

He tapped his softening cock against her lips, leaving a thick smear of white. "Clean it off." Emily's tongue darted out tentatively, licking the bitter fluid from her upper lip. Jake shoved two fingers into her mouth, forcing her jaw wider. "Suck." She obeyed, hollowing her cheeks around his fingers as he dragged them slowly back out, coated in her spit and his cum. "Now swallow what's in your mouth."

She did, her throat convulsing as she choked down the viscous load. Jake pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, then wiped the remaining mess from his cock across her tear-streaked cheek. "Good girl."

Jake dressed quickly, not looking at her. As he slipped out the window, Emily lay still, her face a glistening mask of white, her chest rising and falling with shallow, shuddering breaths. Slowly, she curled into a ball on the stained sheets, silent sobs shaking her shoulders.

Sam exhaled sharply, feeling a knot of tension tighten in his chest. On a whim, he switched the camera feed to the hallway outside Emily’s room. His stomach dropped as he saw Madison retreating back to her own room, her face pale and her movements hurried. She saw everything, Sam realized, his mind racing. She saw everything, and she didn’t do a damn thing.

The betrayal hit him like a punch to the gut. Madison—Emily's own mother—had stood by and watched her daughter be used like that, violated in her own room, and done nothing. Sam's hands balled into fists, nails biting into his palms, but beneath the rage was something darker: a twisted need to understand. To see more. He switched the feed to Madison's bedroom, the camera capturing the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls.

Madison sat on the edge of the bed, her silk robe loosely tied, the fabric clinging to her sweat-dampened skin. Her expression was unreadable—a detached calm that made Sam's skin crawl. She reached over, shaking her husband gently awake. He stirred groggily, rubbing his eyes before sitting up, the sheets pooling around his waist to reveal his bare chest, rising and falling with sleepy confusion.

Madison didn't speak. She simply slid off the bed and knelt before him, her movements fluid and deliberate, like a ritual she'd performed a thousand times. Her hands tugged down his underwear with a soft rustle, freeing his cock—soft at first, but already stirring under her gaze. She wrapped her fingers around the base, her touch firm yet teasing, pumping slowly as it thickened in her grip, veins pulsing to life beneath her palm.

For a moment, she just held him there, watching him harden inch by inch—the skin stretching taut, the head flushing from pink to deep red as blood rushed in. Her thumb circled the tip, collecting the first bead of precum that welled up, slick and sticky, before smearing it down the shaft. The room filled with the subtle, wet schlick of skin on skin, her breathing steady while his grew ragged, his cock now fully erect and throbbing in her hand, heavy with promise.