My wife, Kayla, and I bought our daughter Rosalind her first phone when she was 12 years old. It came with the usual rules and warnings. We had to know her password; there would be controls on what websites she could use. She could never meet in person anyone she got to know in a chat room, and as parents, we could check her phone whenever we liked for inappropriate content. For the first few months, Kayla checked the phone regularly. This tailed off after a time to every three or four months until neither of us checked it at all. Rosalind’s a good kid, level-headed and hardworking. We grew to trust her completely.

I’m reminded of this because I just received an email from the phone’s service provider.

Your child is now 18 (true enough, we celebrated her birthday yesterday), and your parental controls will end. Do you want to extend them for 30 days? Click yes to extend or no to terminate with immediate effect.

My finger hovered over ‘no’. Then I thought Kayla might want to do one more check, just for old times’ sake. I clicked ‘yes’ to extend.

The screen changed. Your Parental Access Management Software (PAMS) requires an update.

I frowned at the screen. What the hell is PAMS?

I clicked the update icon and watched as 42 megabytes were downloaded and installed. A login screen appeared. Enter your email address, easy enough. Enter your password - that’s trickier. I tried an old generic one we used to use. I tried another and failed. I clicked 'reset password' and jumped through those hoops for a couple of minutes before voilà - I was looking at a direct feed from Rosalind’s phone. A pop-up informed me that I can view everything on the phone without the child being aware that I am online, but I am unable to copy, download, or edit any files or apps. I scroll through Rosalind’s home screen apps, nothing unusual there. Run her internet app and review her browsing history, which primarily consists of online shopping. That done, I hover over her photo gallery icon. Why not? I’m here now.

Kayla’s out, working the late shift at the hospital. Rosalind is out as well, down the gym with a couple of friends. I confirmed this because the newest couple of images in the gallery show Lacey, Rosalind’s friend, running on a treadmill. There are thousands of photos - Rosalind must be snapping them constantly. Meals that she’s about to eat. Next door’s cat. Ros with friends, Ros at a bar, Ros at a party. I zoom out so the images are thumbnails, twenty to a page. I scroll through a few pages, and I’m about to give up when one image catches my eye.

I click on it. Our house has three bathrooms. Kayla and I have one en-suite. So does Rosalind. The photo is taken in her bathroom. I recognise the decor in the background. In the foreground is Ros, taking a mirror selfie, wearing only a white lingerie set. I breathe out slowly. The following image is the same set in a different pose. Rosalind takes after her mother. She's 5'6" in height, a brunette, a C-cup bra size, and has curvaceous hips. There’s a whole ream of these pictures; four or five images show Rosalind in different lingerie sets. She’s checking out which ones she looks best in. My hand is starting to shake as I hold the phone. I find a set of Rosalind in dark blue lace bra and panties. One over-the-shoulder shot showing her sweet ass - wait, scratch that, she’s my daughter, she doesn’t have a ‘sweet’ ass. Just an ass gripped in tight lace panties. I put the phone down. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.

I get up and walk around the house. Come back and pick up the phone. God, she looks fucking amazing. More photos. How much lingerie does this girl have? The next file is a video. The thumbnail is odd, a blurred image of her face. I click play.

Rosalind in close-up. Eyes closed, breathing heavily, whimpering. She’s in bed, and I know what she’s doing because I can hear the sound of her fingers rubbing at a wet pussy. She’s getting close to an orgasm, and I can feel my cock hardening in my shorts. Ros’s head goes back, and she cries out, ‘yes, yes, yes’, and the image slides a little to catch a glimpse of a naked breast, nipple dark and erect.

I push my shorts and briefs down, grab my cock, and start masturbating. Rosalind thrashes on her bed, and already I can feel cum boiling in my cock. She climaxes, rolls over, smiles at the camera, and says, “I hope you like this one.”

I stopped masturbating. It’s almost like she’s talking to me. She’s not, but some lucky bastard has received that file. I hope they fucking appreciate it. I click away and find another video file.

Sweet Jesus. Rosalind’s pussy in close-up this time, a vibrator sliding up and down her labia. I can see the muscles of her stomach and thighs flexing. She angles the tip of the vibrator onto her clit. I start masturbating again. I can hear Ros sobbing, and it’s music to my ears. She’s so close to coming, and so am I. The video ends. I frantically tap the screen and go back to the first orgasm video. She looks so vulnerable that I want to reach out and hold her, but she’s coming, and so am I, shouting in sympathy with her, my cum spraying onto the bedroom carpet. I’ve not ejaculated like this in years, the intensity ripping through my body like an electric shock. I end up hunched over like an old man, breathing heavily and already feeling sick with guilt at what I’ve just done. She’s my daughter, and I’ve just shot my load looking at pictures of her.

“Oh, my God.” My voice sounds odd in the quiet of the house. I can’t stand up. She’s drained me.

Still feeling guilty, I log off her phone. It takes a few minutes, but I finally get to my feet and find some tissue to clean up my mess. The carpet looks ok; no stains are showing through. I sit on the bed and try to justify what just happened. I can’t. Instead, I log back into Rosalind’s phone and find where the lingerie photos start. I tap on the metadata of a dozen of them. The dates are all within the last six months. That makes me feel better. I disconnect again and lie down on the bed.

Here’s the thing. Four years ago, Kayla found Jesus. She decided that sex should just be for procreation, and since we were not going to be having another child in our late forties, there would be no more sex in our marriage. So I joined the ranks of the involuntary celibate at the age of 46, and the only time I get to cum is when I masturbate. I see that email from the service provider as a piece of fate. I’ve been guided to Rosalind’s photographs to find some last little pleasure in life while there’s still a chance.

Thirty days is all I’ll get. I’m already looking forward to them.