Hannah’s ultrasound was at ten. She texted me at eight asking if I could “keep Marcus from painting the nursery the wrong color” while she was gone. I said yes. I was already in their driveway at 9:15, skirt and nothing else, the toy from her nightstand in my bag.
Marcus opened the door, saw me, and locked it behind us.
“Upstairs. Bed. Clothes off. Phone on the nightstand. I’m recording this one.”
I stripped and lay back on their sheets. He set his phone against the lamp, hit record, and looked at the angle—my spread thighs, the marital bed, his c**k already hard. He didn’t start with my mouth this time. He climbed over me, rubbed the head through how wet I was, and pushed in slow while the camera caught every inch.
“Look at the phone,” he ordered. “Let it see you taking your sister’s
