Wonder Woman gets blasted

My hand is on my cock before I can stop myself. It's shameful—I know it's shameful—but my body doesn't care. I'm hard, aching, leaking through my fingers as I watch my father position himself behind Briana, his phone held steady in one hand, the camera light blinking red in the dim bedroom.

"Say it," he commands, his voice low and measured. "Say you're sorry for the party. Say it for the camera."

Briana's face is pressed into the pillow, her ass raised, her body still trembling from the orgasms he's already given 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, a nightmare I can't wake from.

"I'm—" she starts, but the word dissolves into a moan as he plunges his thick cock deep into her soaking cunt with a single, smooth thrust. Her fingers twist in the sheets, her back arching, her whole body jolting forward from the force of it. "I'm—ahh—I'm sorry—"

"Louder." He spanks her, sharp and sudden, the sound of his palm hitting her wet flesh echoing in the room. Her hips jerk, and her heavy breasts swing and bounce with the impact, the nipples hard and dark against the pale skin. "Look at the camera. Let me see your face."

She turns her head, her cheek still pressed against the pillow, her eyes finding the phone. Her face is flushed, tear-streaked, her lipstick smeared, her blonde hair a tangled mess. She looks ruined. She looks beautiful. She looks like a stranger.

"I'm sorry," she gasps, and the words are broken, fragmented, shattered by the rhythm of his hips. "I'm sorry for—nng—for the party. I'm sorry for—fuck—for bringing all those people into your—ahh—into your house—"

"Keep going." He's thrusting now, slow and deep, the phone still in his hand, still recording. The wet, slapping sound of his balls hitting her ass fills the room. "What else are you sorry for?"

"I'm sorry for—" She moans, her eyes squeezing shut, her mouth falling open. "I'm sorry for—nng—for disrespecting you. I'm sorry for—fuck—for thinking I could—could smooth things over with—with—"

"With what?" My father's voice is soft, almost gentle, and he reaches down to grab her hip, pulling her back onto him with each thrust. "With what, Briana?"

"With my—" She gasps, her voice breaking. "With my—fuck—with my body. I'm sorry for—ahh—for thinking I could smooth things over with my—nng—with my body—"

"Good girl." He speeds up, just slightly, and I watch her body jolt with each impact, her breasts swaying and bouncing beneath her, the aureolae dark and swollen. "Now say thank you."

"Thank—" She can barely get the word out. "Thank you, Mr.—ahh—Mr. Hartley. Thank you for—fuck—for teaching me. Thank you for—nng—for showing me—"

"Showing you what?" He's thrusting harder now, the wet clap of skin filling the room. "Showing you what, Briana?"

"Showing me—" She sobs, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her knuckles white. "Showing me that I'm—nng—that I'm not—that I'm just—"

"Just what?" He spanks her again, and she cries out, her body convulsing. "Just what, Briana? Say it."

"Just a—" The word catches in her throat, and I watch her face contort with a mixture of pleasure and shame. "Just a—fuck—just a whore. I'm just a—ahh—a pretty little whore who thought she could—could use her body to get what she—nng—what she wanted—"

My father laughs, low and dark, and the sound vibrates through the room. "That's right," he says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "That's exactly right. You're a whore. A pretty little whore who came into my house, threw a party without asking, and then tried to buy me off with that tight little pussy."

"I'm sorry," she moans, and the words are barely coherent now, each one punched out of her by the force of his thrusts. "I'm sorry, Mr.—nng—Mr. Hartley. I'm sorry for—fuck—for being a whore. I'm sorry for—ahh—for thinking I could—could control you—"

"For what else?" He's still thrusting, still recording, his voice a low, commanding murmur. "What else are you sorry for, Briana? Say it for the camera."

"For—" She gasps, her body jolting forward, her face pressing into the pillow. "For my—oh god—for my boyfriend. I'm sorry for—nng—for dragging him into this. I'm sorry for—fuck—for making him think I could—could fix everything—"

"For what?" He spanks her again, and she cries out, her body convulsing. "For what, Briana? Say it."

"For being a—" She sobs, and the words are raw, desperate, utterly broken. "For being a bad—nng—a bad girlfriend. I'm sorry for—fuck—for lying to him. I'm sorry for—ahh—for telling him I could handle this. I'm sorry for—oh god—for being here, on my hands and knees, while he's—while he's—"

"While he's what?" My father's voice is soft, almost tender, and he reaches down to stroke her back, his touch light and soothing. "While he's what, Briana?"

"While he's—" She can barely speak now, her voice breaking apart with every thrust. "While he's down—nng—downstairs. While he's—fuck—while he's waiting for me. While he's—ahh—while he's trusting me. While he's—oh god—while he's probably asleep on the—nng—on the couch, thinking I'm—thinking I'm fixing—fuck—fixing everything—"

"And what are you actually doing?" He's still thrusting, still recording, his voice a low, commanding murmur. "What are you actually doing, Briana? Say it for the camera."

"I'm getting—" She sobs, and the words are raw, desperate, utterly broken. "I'm getting fucked by his—ahh—by his father. I'm on my hands and knees in his—nng—in his father's bedroom, apologizing for a—fuck—for a party, while his father fucks me and—oh god—and records it. I'm—I'm a whore. I'm a bad—nng—a bad girlfriend. I'm—I'm sorry. I'm so—fuck—so sorry—"

The words tumble out of her like a prayer, a confession, a desperate attempt to absolve herself of something that can never be absolved. But even as she says them, her hips are grinding against my father's cock, and her fingers are twisting in the sheets, and her voice is rising in pitch with every passing second.

I watch her, and I feel something inside me shatter.

This isn't coercion. This isn't rape. This isn't even reluctant submission. This is Briana—my Briana, the girl who laughs at my jokes and holds my hand and tells me she loves me—on her hands and knees, apologizing for a party, while my father fucks her and records it. And she's not just enduring it. She's not just tolerating it. She's participating. She's begging. She's loving it.

The realization hits me like a physical blow, and I feel my knees buckle. I lean against the wall, my hand still on my cock, still stroking, still hard despite everything. Because some part of me—some dark, twisted part that I didn't know existed until this moment—is aroused by this. Aroused by the sight of my girlfriend surrendering to my father. Aroused by the sound of her voice, raw and desperate, apologizing for things she shouldn't have to apologize for. Aroused by the knowledge that she's being fucked better than I've ever fucked her, and that she knows it, and that she can't hide it.

But then the words stop.

Briana's voice breaks apart completely, dissolving into nothing but moans and gasps and the wet, rhythmic sound of my father's cock driving into her. She's beyond speech now, beyond apology, beyond anything except the raw, animal pleasure that's consuming her from the inside out. Her face is pressed into the pillow, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut, and the only sounds she makes are the ones that are torn from her involuntarily—ahh, nng, fuck, oh god—fragments of language that no longer mean anything.

My father doesn't ask her any more questions. He doesn't make her say anything else. He just fucks her, hard and deep and relentless, the phone still recording, the camera still capturing every moment. The wet clap of skin fills the room, punctuated by her broken moans and his low, satisfied grunts.

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice rough with exertion. "That's it. No more words. Just feel it. Just take it."

She does. Her body moves with his, her hips pushing back to meet each thrust, her fingers clawing at the sheets, her breasts swaying and bouncing with every impact. She's not fighting anymore. She's not resisting. She's not even pretending to resist. She's just taking it, surrendering completely, letting him use her body however he wants.

I watch her come again—I've lost count of how many times now—her body convulsing, her mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes rolling back in her head. And still he doesn't stop. He keeps thrusting, keeps driving into her, keeps pushing her past the point of coherence until she's nothing but a trembling, gasping, utterly wrecked thing on his bed.

"Please," she manages, and the word is barely audible, barely human. "Please—ahh—please—"

"Please what?" My father's voice is strained now, and I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his rhythm is starting to falter. "Please what, Briana?"

She doesn't answer. She can't. The word just keeps spilling from her lips, over and over, a broken litany: "Please. Please. Please. Please—"

He pulls out of her suddenly, and she collapses onto the bed, her body limp, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. For a moment, I think it's over. I think he's done with her. I think he's going to leave her there, ruined and used, and walk away.

But then he grabs her by the hair and pulls her up, turning her around, forcing her to her knees on the floor. Her face is level with his cock now, her eyes glazed, her mouth open, her chest heaving. The phone is still recording, still capturing everything, and I watch as he positions himself in front of her, his hand fisted in her blonde hair.

"Open your mouth," he commands.

She does. She opens her mouth, her tongue out, her eyes looking up at him with a mixture of fear and desperate, aching need. She knows what's coming. She knows what he's going to do. And she's not pulling away. She's not closing her mouth. She's waiting for it.

My father strokes himself once, twice, three times, his eyes fixed on her face. And then he comes, a thick, white rope that lands across her cheek, her lips, her tongue. Another spurt hits her forehead, her closed eyelid, her chin. He groans, low and guttural, his hips jerking, his hand still fisted in her hair, holding her in place as he paints her face with his release.

Briana doesn't flinch. She doesn't turn away. She just kneels there, her mouth open, her eyes closed, letting him cover her. When he's done, she opens her eyes and looks up at him, her face streaked with his cum, her lips glistening, her expression utterly, completely broken.