My father fucked me right in front of my colleagues at work, and everyone enjoyed it

I still can’t believe it actually happened. Even now, when I close my eyes, I can feel the hot studio lights on my skin, smell the sterile scent of bleach mixed with cheap perfume, and hear the low hum of the camera in my hand. My name is Cristina, and for the past three years, I’ve worked as a camerawoman for one of the biggest incest-themed channels on Telegram. Yeah, you heard that right. It’s a niche, but marica, it pays the bills—and honestly, after a while, it all becomes routine. New faces every day, big cocks, bigger egos, fake moans, real orgasms sometimes, and always, always technical issues that make me want to pull my hair out.

That day started like any other. I walked into the studio, my heels clicking against the cold linoleum floor. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and anticipation. My producer, a sweaty guy named Mark who’s always stressing about deadlines, tossed me a clipboard. “New casting today, Cristina. Three guys. Make sure you get the angles right, especially on the… you know.” He winked. I rolled my eyes. Chévere, another day, another dick.

The first two guys were the usual—nervous, trying too hard to look confident, their eyes darting between the bed and the two actresses, Lola and Mia, who were already lounging there, bored. Lola was applying lip gloss like she was getting ready for a party, not a porn shoot. I adjusted the camera, my fingers moving on autopilot. Zoom in, focus, frame the shot. It’s mechanical. I’ve seen so many bodies, so many acts, that sometimes I feel like I’m just watching mannequins going through the motions.

Then the third guy walked in.

And my whole world just… stopped.

At first, I thought the lights were playing tricks on me. Maybe I was dehydrated. Maybe the lack of sleep was finally catching up. Because there, standing in the doorway, was my father.

Coño. No fucking way.

He looked… good. He’d always been a handsome man, my papi. Tall, broad shoulders, that same confident smile that used to make my teenage heart flutter. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt that stretched tight across his chest and jeans that hugged his hips just right. He didn’t look nervous. He looked like he owned the place. He introduced himself to Mark, his voice a low rumble I’d know anywhere. “I’m Carlos. Here for the casting.”

My hand tightened on the camera. The plastic felt suddenly slippery. What the hell is he doing here? My mind was racing, a frantic, panicked loop. This had to be a mistake. A sick joke. But then he turned, and his eyes met mine. And he didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look shocked. He just looked at me, and there was a flicker in his eyes—a knowing, dark, hungry look that sent a shiver straight down my spine to my cuca. He knew. He knew I worked here. He’d come here for me.

The memories hit me like a truck. The secret touches when I was younger. The “accidental” brushes. The night, a year ago, after my mom’s funeral, when we’d had too much wine and he’d shown me just how much of a man he still was. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, a moment of grief and madness. We never spoke about it again. I thought I’d buried it. But he hadn’t. He’d been waiting.

Inside, I was boiling. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure the microphone was picking it up. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the camera at his head. But I didn’t. I’m a professional. And this is my job. So I did what I do best. I lifted the camera, my hands steady despite the earthquake inside me, and I started filming. I filmed him shaking Mark’s hand. I filmed him talking to the girls, that easy charm turning them into putty in his hands. Lola was already giggling, touching his arm. Mia was looking him up and down like he was a five-course meal.

No one suspected a thing. Why would they? He was just another handsome older guy here to fuck two young girls on camera. And I was just the camerawoman, invisible behind the lens. The silent observer. The secret keeper.

The shoot began. The usual script. The fake surprise. “Oh, you’re both so beautiful.” The awkward undressing. But with him, it was different. He wasn’t awkward. He was a maestro. He took control, his movements smooth and confident. He kissed Lola deeply, his hands roaming her body, and then he turned to Mia, pulling her close. And the whole time, his eyes kept finding the lens. Finding me. It was a game for him. A performance for an audience of one.

I watched through the viewfinder, my knuckles white. I watched his hands, those strong hands I knew so well, squeeze Lola’s tits, pinch her nipples. I watched him push Mia down onto her knees, and I watched her take his cock into her mouth. And marica, what a cock. I’d forgotten how big he was. A proper guevote, thick and veiny, and seeing it again, here, in this context, made my mouth water and my stomach clench at the same time. Lola was moaning for real now, writhing under his touch. He knew exactly what he was doing.

He fucked them with a possessive intensity that was mesmerizing. He wasn’t just going through the motions; he was claiming them. And every groan, every slap of skin against skin, was a message meant for me. I was transfixed, my body betraying me. I could feel my own wetness soaking through my panties, my nipples hard and aching against the fabric of my top. I was disgusted with myself, with him, with this whole situation, but I couldn’t look away. The camera was my shield and my prison.

Then it was over. The girls lay spent on the rumpled sheets. Mark was grinning, giving a thumbs-up. “Fantastic! Really natural chemistry. We’ll call you, Carlos.”

My father just nodded, pulling on his jeans. He didn’t look at the girls. He looked straight at me. And he waited. He knew. He knew I would break first. He knew I had to ask. The unspoken thing hanging in the air between us, thick and heavy as the smell of sex.

I took a shaky breath, lowering the camera. My voice sounded strange, too high. “That was… great. Really great.” I forced a smile for Mark. “Hey, Mark, what about that… special idea we talked about? The ‘family visit’ concept?”

Mark’s eyes lit up. “Oh, shit, yeah! The one where the dad surprises the daughter at work? You think we can do it?”

I didn’t take my eyes off my father. “I think we have the perfect guy for it.”

A slow, triumphant smile spread across my father’s face. He’d won.

The set was cleared quickly. It was just him and me now, under the lights. The camera was set on a tripod, its red eye staring at us. My hands were trembling as I mic’d us up. His fingers brushed against my waist as he helped me, and I jumped. His scent, that familiar mix of soap and him, filled my senses, making me dizzy.

“Relájate, mija,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, just for me. “It’s just you and me. Like before.”

The script was simple. He was the concerned father who’d come to check on his daughter’s new job. I was the shocked daughter who didn’t expect him. But there was no acting needed. The shock on my face was real. The hunger in his eyes was real.

The camera rolled.

“Cristina? What is this place?” he said, his tone perfectly paternal and confused.

“Papi… I… I can explain—” I stammered.

And then he was on me. His mouth crashed down on mine, not like a father, but like a lover starved for the taste of me. It was brutal and possessive. All pretense dropped. His tongue plunged into my mouth, and I moaned, my body melting against his despite the voice screaming in my head. His hands groped my ass, pulling me hard against the bulge in his jeans. I could feel every inch of him.

He tore my top open, buttons scattering across the floor. His mouth found my nipple, sucking hard, biting, and I cried out, my fingers tangling in his hair. “Papi… yes…” I was past caring. The camera was watching. The world was watching. But all I could see was him.

He bent me over the casting couch, the same one he’d just fucked two other women on. I could smell their perfume, their sex, and now it would smell like us. He yanked my skirt up, his fingers tearing my panties aside. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growled in my ear. “Filming all those men. Getting wet behind your camera. You wanted your papi to come and give it to you proper.”

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded, pushing my ass back against him, begging silently.

And then he was inside me. One powerful, brutal thrust that stole my breath and made me see stars. Coño! He was so big, stretching me open, filling me completely. I screamed, a raw, real sound that had nothing to do with performance. He didn’t give me time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, pounding into me, his grip on my hips sure to leave bruises. The sounds were obscene—the slap of his skin against mine, his grunts, my ragged moans.

I came hard, my body convulsing around him, but he didn’t stop. He drove into me again and again, whispering filthy things in Spanish in my ear, things only I could understand. He spun me around, pushed me onto my knees, and fucked my mouth with the same intensity, my tears and saliva mixing as I gagged on his cock. He came down my throat, and I swallowed every drop, my body humming with a depraved ecstasy I’d never known.

We finished. The camera light blinked off. Silence.

He pulled up his pants, kissed my forehead gently, like he used to when I was a little girl, and walked out without a word.

I was left there, on the soiled couch, my body sore and used, my mind shattered.

Mark was ecstatic. “Cristina, that was… that was the most real fucking thing I’ve ever seen! The ratings on this are going to be insane!”

I just nodded, numb.

I still don’t know if I crossed a line or if life just decided to play the most fucked-up game with me. Maybe both. All I know is that sometimes, the most forbidden fruit is the sweetest, even if it poisons you. And if you’re a single man with nothing to do, and you think you can handle a woman with my kind of baggage… well, you know where to find me.