Glitch in the recording

She reached over without getting off my lap and clicked the mouse a few times. The red recording light blinked back on.

“I want this too,” she said softly, almost shy for the first time. “For us. So we can watch it later. Just… us.”

I didn’t argue. The idea of having a record of this — of her, of us, of the way she looked right now with her hoodie pushed up and her shorts still tangled around one ankle — was too much to resist. Especially when she was the one who wanted it.

She shifted forward in the chair, reached between us, and pulled my cock out of my track pants. Her small hand wrapped around me, stroking slowly while she looked down at it like she’d been thinking about this for a while. Then she rose up on her knees, lined me up, and sank down.

The stretch made her breath catch. She was still wet from coming on my fingers, but she was tight, and the angle in the chair made it intense. I gripped her hips, helping her take me, watching her face as she worked herself down until I was buried all the way inside her.

“Fuck,” she whispered, forehead dropping to my shoulder for a second. “You feel so big like this.”

She started to move.

Slow at first. Rolling her hips, using the height difference to her advantage as she braced her hands on my shoulders and rode me in the chair. The camera caught everything — the way her full breasts bounced with every movement, the curve of her waist, the way her thick thighs flexed as she lifted and sank back down. Her hoodie was still on but useless, bunched up under her arms. The tiny shorts were long gone.

She kept talking, voice breathy and open, still half-performing for the camera even as her movements got needier.

“I’ve wanted this,” she said to the lens, even as she looked at me. “Wanted him inside me. Wanted to feel him stretch me while I’m on camera for him.”

I held her tighter, one hand on her arse, the other sliding up to cup her breast. She moaned when I pinched her nipple, hips stuttering before she found her rhythm again. The wet sound of her riding me filled the small room, mixing with her soft sounds and the low hum of her PC.

It was filthy. It was intimate. And it was being recorded.

She leaned in and kissed me hard, riding me faster now, the chair creaking under us. Her forehead stayed pressed to mine as she whispered against my mouth between kisses.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” she breathed. “I can stop the recording.”

“Don’t stop,” I growled, gripping her hips harder and thrusting up to meet her. “Keep going. I want it too.”

She made a broken, pleased sound and rode me harder.

Neither of us noticed at first.

The little notification that popped up in the corner of her screen. The slow climb in the viewer count that had been at one (just the local recording) and was now steadily rising. The chat messages that started appearing — short, excited, disbelieving.

We were too lost in each other. In the heat of her tight around me, the way her body moved, the way she kept glancing at the camera like she was still putting on a show just for us.

She came again with a soft cry, clenching hard around me, and I followed right after, burying myself deep as I came inside her with a low groan against her neck.

For a long moment we just stayed there, breathing hard, her forehead against mine, my arms wrapped around her small frame.

Then she turned her head slightly and glanced at the monitor.

Her whole body went still.

“Oh my god.”

I followed her gaze.

The viewer count was at forty-seven and climbing. Chat was scrolling fast — people reacting in real time. The little “LIVE” indicator in the corner was bright red.

She hadn’t hit “private recording.”

She’d gone live.

And neither of us had noticed.

Veronica stared at the screen for a second, eyes wide, still impaled on my cock, my come leaking out of her around where we were joined. Then she looked back at me, cheeks flushed darker than I’d ever seen them.

“I— I thought I set it to private,” she whispered, voice shaky but not panicked. More stunned. “The platform… sometimes it glitches if you switch too fast from recording to stream. I didn’t check.”

I didn’t fully understand the interface. I’d never used it. All I knew was that the red light had been on, and now there were dozens of people who had just watched us fuck.

Watched her ride me. Heard her say those things. Seen every inch of her.

She didn’t pull off me right away. She just stayed there, breathing hard, eyes flicking between the screen and my face like she was waiting to see how I’d react.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to see this. Not like this.”

But even as she said it, I could feel her still clenching around me in small, involuntary pulses. And when she glanced at the chat again, something complicated flickered across her face — shock, yes, but also something hotter. Something that looked a lot like the same liberal, exhibitionist thrill she’d had when it was just supposed to be for us.

The stream was still live.

And we were still connected.