Ever heard of the saying ‘time flies when you're having fun’? I was having fun. Every day, I would log into Rosalind's phone, and every day, I was masturbating over photos and videos of my daughter. The guilty feeling had lasted all of 24 hours. The day after I first saw her gallery, Ros created another video.

It opens with her lying on her bed wearing just her underwear. She's holding the phone with one hand, giving an aerial view of her body, while the other hand traces back and forth over her stomach. Ros is smiling into the camera as if looking into the eyes of a lover. The hand rises, slipping across a breast to hook one bra strap off her shoulder far enough that she can peel the cup down and expose a dark nipple to her questing fingers.

I watch her squeeze the breast and pinch the nipple, rolling it between her finger and thumb. Her lips part in a sigh of arousal that is matched by mine as I slide a hand into my shorts and rub my aching cock. Rosalind's hand leaves the breast, snaking down past her navel to slide into her panties. I hear her gasp, and match the movement of her hand with my own as I start pumping my cock. She's writhing, working her clit hard, getting close to climax as the phone wobbles and her sighs of pleasure grow louder.

I always ejaculate at the same time she loses control, the phone coming down to rest on her hip, giving a close-up of her fingers in panties wet with lust. In the background, Rosalind is whimpering. Her fingers withdraw, and the camera follows them up to her mouth, where she licks them clean of her juice before saying,

“I hope you like this one.”

It's my new favourite video. I watch it every day, but I forget to count the days until….

“DAD!”

Rosalind bursts into my bedroom like a Category 5 Tornado. The door smashes back on its hinges. I jump out of my skin. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed and drop my phone, screen down, on the mattress to hide what I'm watching.

Ros shouts. “Are you spying on me?”

“What? No.”

“Then it must be Mom!”

Shit. “It's not Mom.”

Ros thrusts the phone into my face so close I have to lean back to focus on it.

PAMS Notification: A parent is monitoring your device.

“Well?”

“Oh, that.” I try to laugh, but it doesn't come off. “It's that app from the service provider we installed when we first bought you a phone.”

“Yes, I know,” Ros is still at full volume. “When I was 12 years old, but I'm 18 now, I'm a fucking adult. Why are you still looking at my phone?”

“I was just testing the app to see if it still works.”

“Testing it?”

She spots my phone on the bed, and quick as a flash, she grabs it. I have a nanosecond to hope the screen has gone to power-saving mode. A hope that dies when I see her face pale.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

I have seen Rosalind have tantrums as a toddler, and some moody teenage days, but this is pure incandescent rage. Her eyes lock onto mine.

“You're watching this?”

No need to answer that, it's pretty bloody obvious I’m watching my favourite Rosalind orgasm video. Ros throws the phone at me hard enough to break a rib. As I rub the sore spot, she points a finger at me.

“I am so telling Mom, and you are so getting a divorce.” She heads for the door.

“You can't tell your mom.”

She snaps back around. “Why not?”

“If you tell her about this, I will tell her what's on your phone. You know what she's like. She'll confiscate your phone, your tablet, and your laptop. She'll drag you down to church and have Pastor John exorcise your demons in front of the entire congregation, and then take you to a religious retreat for six months where you'll spend 18 hours a day on your knees praying for redemption.”

Rosalind comes closer.

“Don't you threaten me.”

“I'm not. It's just what will happen.”

Her mouth is working like she wants to say something, but can't get the words out.

“Who are you sending the videos to?” I ask.

The question throws her. “What?”

“At the end of your videos, you say ‘hope you like this one’.”

“No one.”

I laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”

Rosalind leans in close, and for a moment, I think she is going to punch me.

“Yes, I do expect you to believe that, because I don't fucking lie.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because when I orgasm, it's like I'm falling into the sun. I have no idea what I'm doing or the sounds I'm making. That is my orgasmic self talking to my normal self. I just want to know what I look like. That's why I do these videos. Ok?”

I nod. She thinks for a moment and comes to a realisation.

“Wait a minute. You’ve seen all of the videos?”

About five times a day for the last thirty days. I don't tell her that. I just nod mutely.

“And the photographs?”

Another nod.

“You dirty pervert. I'm your daughter!"

Again, I get the impression she wants to punch me. Instead, she just shakes her head in disgust and starts for the door. She stops before she gets there and turns slowly to look at me.

“Have you been jerking off to these videos?”

“No.”

Rosalind sees through that lie straightaway.

“You have…Oh, my God…My dad…I don’t believe it.”

I stay silent. Call me a coward, but right then, nothing I could say would make this better.

Ros shakes her head. “And you're right, I can't tell Mom, she'll book me into a convent, or buy me a chastity belt, or both.”

I'm watching her closely. She looks like she's about to cry. Then, slowly, the anger fades and is replaced by a cold, calculating look, which, if anything, is even more frightening.

She comes back to stand in front of me.

“If I can't tell Mom about this, then I need something from you.”

“What?”

“I need something to hold over you. Something I can show her if you ever, even accidentally, let slip about my videos.”

I wait for the hammer to fall.

“I want you to video yourself jerking off, then send it to me. That way, if Mom finds out, I will take you down with me.”

“Seriously?” I can't believe what she just asked for.

“Yeah,” she’s smiling, warming to the idea. “You, jerking off. It's perfect.”

It's not perfect. It's downright crazy.

“In that case,” I say, “I want a copy of that last orgasm video you made.”

“What!” Her anger returns. “Why?’

“Because the app doesn't let me copy or download any files. You could clear your phone, and there would be no evidence to back up anything I say.”

She thinks about that with narrowed eyes.

“Okay.”

I decide to chance my luck. “And there's a set of photos with you in dark blue lingerie. I want them as well.”

Rosalind almost laughs. “Who is in the fucking wrong here?”

I wait her out. Finally, she points a finger at my face and says,

“Fine, you can have them as well, but your video better be good quality. I need to see your face, your body, your cock and your balls. I need to see you cum. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“And you're still a dirty pervert.”

“Yes.”

With a final, angry sigh, Rosalind stomps from the room, the door closing like a gunshot behind her.

I slump back on the bed, of all the stupid, dumbass, pieces-of-shit software. It can't just block my access on day 31; it has to let me in and notify her at the same time. Why?

I rub my face, the flesh is cold and clammy, reflecting the fear that had taken hold of me. One good thing, if Rosalind had waited a couple of minutes more before storming in, she would have found me naked and masturbating. At least I escaped that happening.

My phone pings with an incoming message.

Rosalind: I’m waiting.

Seriously? Doesn't she know how difficult it will be for me to get a hard-on after all that?

I sit up. I should keep her happy, but I need to figure out a way to do this. I’ve become quite adept over the last month at holding my phone and scrolling her gallery with my left hand while my right hand works on my cock. If she wants this recorded, I need to have a different plan.

I end up going to my home office and grabbing my laptop. With Kayla’s dressing table chair dragged into position, I can balance the laptop on the seat and activate the camera. A few minor adjustments, and I can see myself on screen sitting on the edge of the bed. With a sigh, I strip off my clothes and start watching Rosalind's videos.

It's surprising, but I get hard quickly. I jump up and hit record on the laptop. The countdown gives me five seconds to get back in position. I start masturbating as I flick through videos and images. I soon forget the webcam and Rosalind's anger. I'm lost in her beauty and passion. The way the lingerie shows off her figure, the way she writhes as she orgasms, and the photo of her ass in dark blue lace.

God, Rosalind, you are so damn beautiful. I wish you were naked on all fours in front of me.

My hand is moving faster, pre-cum has made the shaft slick, and I fight the urge to look at the laptop, I just need to hold on as long as….

“Oh, yes, yes. Oh fuck, yes.”

I'm spraying the carpet with sticky white strands that seem to fly and float in slow motion. Eyes closed, panting after the exertion, I squeeze a little more cum from my shaft before I look at the laptop and say,

“I hope you like this one.”

I cross to the laptop and give Ros an unintentional close-up of my cock and balls as I stop recording and save the video. A drip of cum hangs from the end of my cock, and I catch it before it lands. Try explaining that one to the IT technician who has to clean up a sticky keyboard.

I use a file-sharing site to send the video to Rosalind. Once it's gone, I delete the original and clear the recycle folder. I clean up myself and the carpet, and thankfully, there are no stain marks. I put the chair and laptop back in place before heading to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Twenty minutes later, my phone pings. Rosalind has shared one video and five photographs. I download them into a folder tucked away deep somewhere and delete her message. I won't look at them right away, maybe in an hour or so when I've recovered a little.

So, Rosalind knows. It's not as bad as I feared. At least Kayla won't find out. It's like the old Cold War thing between me and Rosalind now. The videos give us mutually assured destruction if one of us is ever stupid enough to talk.

I look out at the garden. What will tomorrow bring?