He records her formal apology

My hand is already moving before I realize what I'm doing. It's shameful—I know it's shameful—but my body doesn't care. My cock is hard, straining against my jeans, and my fingers fumble with the zipper as I watch my father position himself behind Briana, his hands gripping her hips, his cock sliding back into her with a smooth, practiced ease that makes my stomach clench.

She moans into the pillow, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her body arching to meet him. The new angle is deeper, more intimate, and I can see the way her whole body responds—the way her back bows, the way her ass jiggles with every impact, the way her tits sway beneath her. The boots are still on her feet, her legs spread wide, and she looks like something out of a fever dream, a fantasy I didn't know I had.

This is wrong, I think, but my hand keeps moving, stroking myself in time with my father's thrusts. This is so fucking wrong.

But then my father stops.

He pulls out of her with a wet, obscene sound, and Briana whimpers at the sudden emptiness, her hips pushing back instinctively, searching for him. "Please—" she gasps, her voice raw and desperate. "Please, don't stop—"

"Shhh." He reaches over to the nightstand, and I watch him pick up his phone—the latest model, sleek and black, the same phone he uses for business calls and stock trades and everything else in his carefully curated life. "I want to remember this."

Briana turns her head, her cheek pressed against the pillow, her eyes hazy with arousal. "What—what are you doing?"

"Recording." He says it casually, like he's discussing the weather, and I watch him angle the phone toward her, the camera light blinking red. "I want to capture this moment. The moment you apologize for the party. The moment you beg for my cock. The moment you admit what you really are."

"No." The word comes out sharp, and I see something flicker in her eyes—fear, maybe, or shame, or some combination of both. "No, you can't—you can't record this. That's not—that wasn't part of the deal."

"The deal." My father laughs, low and dark. "You keep talking about a deal. But we both know there is no deal. There's only what I want, and what you're willing to give me to make this right."

"I'm not—" She tries to push herself up, but her arms are shaking, her body still trembling from the orgasms he's already given her. "I'm not letting you record this. That's—that's too far. That's—"

"Too far?" He reaches down and grabs her hip, pulling her back toward him, and I watch her body respond despite her protests—the way her back arches, the way her legs spread wider, the way her breath catches in her throat. "You're on your hands and knees in my bedroom, naked except for a pair of boots—and you're telling me a video is too far?"

"It's different." Her voice is shaking now, and I can see the conflict on her face—the war between what she knows she should do and what her body is screaming for her to do. "A video is—it's evidence. It's—it could ruin me. It could ruin your son. It could—"

"It could ruin you." My father's voice is soft, almost gentle, and he reaches down to stroke her back, his touch light and soothing. "That's what you're afraid of, isn't it? Not the act itself, but the proof of it. The evidence that you spread your legs for your boyfriend's father. The evidence that you begged for it."

"Please." She's crying now, tears streaming down her cheeks, and I watch her body shake with sobs. "Please, Mr. Hartley, don't do this. I'll do anything else. I'll—I'll let you do anything you want. Just please don't record it."

"Anything I want." He repeats the words slowly, savoring them. "You'll let me do anything I want. But you won't let me record it. Do you see the contradiction there?"

"I just—" She gasps as he slides his cock along her slit, not entering, just teasing, letting her feel the heat of him. "I just don't want—ahh—I don't want anyone to see—"

"No one will see." He's still teasing her, still sliding along her wet, swollen flesh, and I watch her hips twitch involuntarily, her body betraying her. "It's just for me. Something to remember you by. Something to watch when I'm alone in this big house, thinking about the pretty little thing who came to negotiate and ended up begging for my cock."

"Just for you?" Her voice is small, uncertain, and I can see the hope flickering in her eyes. "You promise? You promise you won't show anyone?"

"I promise." He says it easily, smoothly, the way he says everything. "It's just for me. A private memento. No one else will ever see it."

She hesitates, her body still trembling, her breath still ragged. I can see the war playing out on her face—the fear, the shame, the desperate need that's been building since the moment she walked into his study. And then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, she nods.

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay. Just for you. Just—just don't show anyone."

"Good girl." He reaches down and positions himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her. "Now say it again. Say you're sorry for the party. Say it for the camera."